5x00 Blind Heat
by jane0904
Summary: A week after the end of Season 4, Kate and Rick talk about what happens next, and Martha becomes embroiled in a mystery of her own, finding she needs help from a certain ex-cop and her writer son. My usual hiatus-infill story! Read, enjoy, review! Now complete, just in time for Season 5!
1. Chapter 1

It had been a week. Seven days while they tested the boundaries of their relationship. Kate had refused to move in with him, and as much as he wanted to argue, Rick understood. She still needed her space, somewhere to run to, to be alone in, a place to hide. As it happened she'd only gone home for an hour every day to shower and change, something Rick found delightful, as if she'd come over all shy. And considering what they'd been doing for those seven nights – and early mornings, and evenings, and one glorious lunchtime when she'd surprised him making sandwiches and they never had got around to eating – he seriously considered the modesty train was well and truly gone.

She'd almost given him a heart attack that first morning, though. He'd woken up and reached for her, only to find that side of the bed empty and cold. He had visions of Bobby Ewing stepping out of the bathroom, then luckily heard movement in the living room just as he reached for the phone to call Belle View and ask to be admitted.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and just sat for a moment, staring down at his toes, wondering why he felt like all his Christmases and birthdays had come at the same time. Kate Beckett. He'd thought, just twenty-four hours before, that he would never see her again, had started to wipe everything physical about her from his life, and now ... He wiggled his toes, a smile tugging at his lips.

Standing up he grabbed his robe from the chair and tugged it on, pausing only a second to rub his hands through his hair before opening the bedroom door.

Aromas that had his mouth salivating smote him.

She'd cooked, and was just getting a tray together, her back to him. The smile grew as he realised she'd found one of his t-shirts, way too big on her, and barely covering her assets. In fact, not at all as she reached up into one of the cupboards.

"Morning," he said.

Kate turned quickly. "Oh." She grinned. "Hey."

"Hey."

"I was just ... breakfast in bed." She gestured towards the tray.

"I gathered." He crossed the loft towards her, sniffing appreciatively. Eggs, bacon, little pancakes ... A memory assaulted him of a similar morning, the day after her apartment had been bombed, but at least this time they weren't likely to be interrupted by Jordan Shaw. "Thank you."

"It's just food."

He was so close now he could feel the heat of her body. "I know." In bare feet, without those ridiculous heels, she was three or four inches shorter than him, so he dipped his head to kiss her, his hands coming up to cup her face. She hesitated, but only a moment, before leaning into him and returning the kiss, grasping his robe and twisting it in her fingers.

It seemed like an age as they explored, Rick rediscovering that little hollow just above her collarbone that made her gasp when he sucked on it.

He had been just about to take it further, to edge them towards the couch or back to the bedroom when Alexis had come in, and squeed. There was no other word for the high-pitched sound she made, almost clapping her hands and jumping on the spot in delight.

Kate turned away, tugging the t-shirt down as low as she could get it, while Rick adjusted his robe and decided to stay behind the counter.

Alexis, though, had shown immense restraint and proved herself the adult in the family by immediately going upstairs and packing a small bag. On her return to find her father and Kate waiting in the living area in matching robes, she had hugged them both tightly, and announced she'd spoken to Tyler and she was going to stay with her for a few days, to give them some space.

"How did I ever get so lucky as to end up with a daughter like you?" Rick asked, holding her close.

"I was probably meant for someone else, only the stork took a wrong turn." She laughed, her clear eyes dancing. "Oh, and I called Gram. I think I managed to persuade her not to come back from the Hamptons, at least not yet."

"Did she say 'I told you so'?"

"Several times."

"She's going to be hell to live with."

"She was right." With a final kiss to each of them, Alexis skipped out of the loft.

"Now ..." Rick turned to Kate, that slow smile on his face that made women putty in his hands. "Where were we?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Having breakfast. Before it gets cold."

He'd muttered something obscene about breakfast, grabbing for her instead, elated when she didn't step out of his reach.

They'd talked too, Kate telling him what had happened.

"I don't blame Kevin," she said, her head pressed into the crook of his neck as they sat on the couch. She had her legs over his lap, and he had one arm around her shoulders, the other holding her close. "In fact, I'm grateful."

"Hey, me too," he assured her. "I just wish I'd been there to save you instead of him."

"You were all I could think about," she admitted. "Not seeing you again, never being able to tell you how I felt ..."

He hugged her tighter. "It's okay."

"It's not." She looked up into his face. "And you were right. I did remember."

His heart contracted. "Yes."

"I just ... I couldn't face it. Not that as well. Trying to deal with everything, with my mother, being shot ... it was all I could do to face the day."

"Rabbit holes can be difficult to climb out of."

She looked up into his eyes. "And I knew I'd hurt you. More than once."

"I did the same to you. So we're even."

"Is that how it works? A relationship? We keep score?"

"Exactly the opposite, I'm thinking."

"Because I've saved your life more than you've saved mine ..." She yelped as he pinched her, just lightly. "But the point is, I almost ruined it."

"How do you figure that?"

"I pushed you away. So many times."

He thought for a long moment, then said, very slowly, "Kate, I think, maybe, if you had slept with me when we first met, we wouldn't be here now."

"Really?"

"It wasn't love at first sight. I saw ... something I could use." It was painful to admit, but he had to be truthful. "My new character. Nikki Heat."

"I still haven't forgiven you for that name."

"Granted. But the point is I was attracted to you, but not ... not like this." He licked dry lips. "I learned you. Grew to understand you, what made you tick. Everything that was incredible, annoying, wonderful, infuriating about you, and I wanted to know more. If we'd had sex, if you'd given in back then, my body would have been grateful, but I'd never have gotten to know the real you."

"And you think you do now?"

"Oh, Kate." There was yearning in his voice. "I think it would take a lifetime."

"You think you're going to be around that long?"

He touched the scar between her breasts, just lightly, with the tip of his forefinger. "I thought I already had."

She watched, then lifted her face to his, hunger in her eyes.

There were other conversations.

"So what now?" he asked as they walked by the lake in Central Park.

"I don't know." She exhaled heavily.

"You're a bit young to retire –"

"A bit?"

He grinned and ignored her. "– so you need to consider your options."

"I do realise that."

"Unless you'd like to be a kept woman. And in case you're not sure, I'm offering to keep you."

"This isn't the eighteenth century, and your apartment isn't a bordello. Although I have heard stories –"

His hand went to his chest. "Not true. None of them."

Her eyebrows rose in enquiry. "From you."

"Oh. Well, yes. Maybe."

"And I don't want to be kept. I pay my own way."

"Fine. If you like I'll work out your share of the utilities on the loft."

She elbowed him in the stomach then went to sit down on a vacant bench.

He joined her, just enjoying the closeness, watching life go by them, the joggers, the businessmen, the women with baby buggies.

"I don't know what I do now," she admitted after a minute or two, resting with her elbows on her thighs, her hands loose between her knees.

"You could always work for me. At the Old Haunt. You could be a barmaid."

"You'd throw Brian out on his ear?"

"In a heartbeat."

"That's nice. But I don't see myself washing glasses for the rest of my life."

"What did you want to be? Before everything, I mean."

"A lawyer."

"Of course. Like your mother."

"Mmn."

"You still can."

She looked out across the water. "I don't know. I don't know that I can."

"If it's money you're worried about, I can pay."

He thought she was going to snap at him, remind him about not being a kept woman, but she surprised him. "Thank you, but if I was going to go that route then I'd manage."

He chuckled. "Have you got that much in the way of savings?"

"Some." She smiled and shook her head. "Anyway, I don't know whether I could work on that side of the law, not now."

"Seen too many bad men get off because of good lawyers?"

"I ... enjoyed being a cop. Putting a case together, getting the evidence, knowing that it was rock solid ..." She sighed. "I miss it."

"It's been four days."

"I don't care."

"Anyway," he said, rallying. "You can be anything you like. Supermodel. Airline pilot. Cheerleader."

"Cheerleader?"

"Mmn. In one of those little skirts, twirling a couple of pompoms ..." He gazed into nothing, letting his imagination run riot, until she elbowed him again and they went to buy fresh bagels for lunch.

Another, less pleasant conversation.

"_She resigned, Mr Castle."_ Captain Victoria Gates' voice over the phone was firm. "It wasn't my choice, but hers."

"She's the best cop you've got." Kate was back at her apartment getting a few things, so he thought it was safe to call.

"_I am aware of that. But she stepped out on her own, and I can't have that, not one of my officers."_

"What would have happened? If she hadn't resigned?"

Gates sighed. _"There would have been an investigation, she might have been demoted, or reinstated, depending on the outcome."_

"And if she changed her mind? Now? About resigning?"

There was an almost imperceptible pause over the line before Gates asked, _"Has she? Changed her mind?"_

"I'm just ... putting out feelers."

"_Have her call me, Mr Castle. This is a conversation I don't intend having with you_." She hung up.

He'd told Kate. He had to. Now wasn't the time to be keeping secrets, not when doing that had nearly driven a wedge so tight between them that they might never have pried it loose.

She was angry. "You had no right, Castle."

"Yes, I did." He stood still under the onslaught. "Whatever we are now, it's you and me, Kate. Us. Together."

"So I can interfere in your life too?"

"Go ahead. You have done already. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

"You should have asked."

"You'd have said no."

"Damn right."

"Kate." He watched her pace. "Kate." He gave up and grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. "Kate. You're a cop. That's what you do. What you are. It's so deep within you I wouldn't be surprised to find your blood was NYPD blue." He knew it wasn't, though. He'd had it on his hands, and he knew it was bright, bright red. "I had to know if you could go back. If you wanted."

"Is that it?" she asked, anger still bright in her eyes. "You don't want me if I'm not a cop?"

"Kate, I'd want you if you went down the sewers in big rubber boots." He micro-paused. "Big rubber boots ..."

"Castle."

"And you know exactly what I'm saying. Only keep the big rubber boots in mind."

"You are such a –"

"Wonderful human being?"

"Not the words I was looking for."

"Kate, it's your life. I was just seeing if the door was still open for you."

She glared at him, then the wattage faded and she deflated a little. "I don't know what I want."

"Then how about we sleep on it?"

"Is that all you think about?"

"Pretty much."

She glanced towards his study. "Don't you have two books to be finishing?"

"I'm ahead of the game."

"Liar."

"Okay, fine, but what are they going to do? Shoot me?"

"I've been tempted."

"There are worse things."

"You've never been shot."

"No." He swallowed. "No, I haven't. And if you don't mind, I'm not planning on it anytime soon."

"Good idea." She pulled away from him and dropped onto the sofa. "I just feel so ..."

"Give it time," he advised. "You've got plenty."

They both carefully avoided mentioning the gunman still out there.

And now the first week was over, and a feeling of normality had returned with Alexis coming home, Martha not an hour after her.

They were sitting around the table, the remains of a good dinner in front of them, and Rick was surprised to find himself happy, secure in the knowledge that this was family.

"That was amazing," Kate said to the chef. "I didn't know you could cook like that."

Rick shrugged. "I had to learn. What with a mother who was out at the theatre at all hours of the day and night ..." His gaze dropped pointedly to his left.

Martha took it in her stride. "I was working."

"Right." Still, it was too nice an evening to argue. "Anyway, you still haven't told me why you came back from Hamptons." He looked at Kate. "Mother doesn't like the city in the summer."

Kate smiled.

"I ... got bored," Martha announced.

"Got curious, is more like it. Just to see if Kate and I could make it as far as the first week." He raised his wine to the woman in question. "Speaking of which ... to our anniversary."

They clinked glasses.

"I admit that was a part of it." Martha wasn't fazed. "And I'm one to talk. I've had relationships that didn't last the night, let alone the first week."

"My father being a case in point."

"Not necessarily."

Rick shook his head and leaned towards Kate. "See, she does this. Comes over all cryptic every time I try and ask about him."

"There's nothing to tell." Martha dismissed his interest. "And that's my life, not yours."

"It doesn't stop you interfering in mine."

"I'm your mother. It comes with the territory."

"Hmmn."

"Anyway, the Hamptons was dull. All the same faces, doing all the same things. So I decided to stay in the city and do something different this year."

"Really?" Rick looked apprehensive. "Like what, exactly?"

"I was thinking ... summer stock!"

Rick glanced at Kate and Alexis, then said, "I know I'm going to regret this, but ... summer stock?"

"You know how I've always loved it. I _had_ decided not to try out for anything this year, not with my acting studio getting going properly and everything, but having locked horns with Grace Sheldon ..." She waved the remainder of the sentence away. "Well, never mind about that. Anyway, it occurred to me to use the empty theatre space and putting on a series of plays using resting actors." Martha looked smug.

"Isn't it a bit late? It's already May," Rick pointed out.

"I have contacts. And lots of friends who are out of work. It could be fun." She saw the look on his face. "Why don't you take Kate instead? You can work on your books anywhere, and it would be good for you." She peered at him. "You look a little peeky, kiddo."

"I do not." In fact he'd been thinking that, if his dreams coming true persisted and they were accompanied by good food and wine, he might actually have to exercise, and swimming was as good as anything. "But it's an idea."

"Oh." Alexis looked crestfallen.

He looked at his daughter. "Sweetheart?"

"Well, if Grams wasn't going I was going to ask if I could, with some of my friends."

"_Girl_ friends, you mean?" Rick asked.

"Probably," she responded, teasing.

"I don't know ..."

"I'm eighteen, Dad. I think you know by now I can be trusted." She absolutely forbade herself from thinking about the time her father had gone to Atlantic City, and the party that had got out of hand.

"Exactly." He fixed her with his warm blue eyes. "You're eighteen. How do I know what you're likely to get up to? Do you have any idea what I was doing at eighteen?"

"All too well," she informed him. "I still have nightmares over some of the stories you've told."

"Ah, good times. And I've only told you the Bowdlerized versions." He sighed in happy remembrance, then brought himself back to Earth quickly as he felt Kate's inquiring gaze on him. "But that's not the point."

Martha patted his arm. "I won't be working the whole time. I can pop down, check up on things occasionally."

"And there's always the phone," Alexis added, warming to her subject. "We can set up a videolink so you can see I haven't wrecked the place."

"It's not the house I'm worried about."

"And I'll be busy in the studio so it would give you and Kate some quality time together," Martha finished.

"So would taking her to the Hamptons." He looked at Alexis, extraordinary as she was. "If I say yes, will you promise _not_ to do anything I ... might have done at your age but wouldn't even consider now so doing in case I gave my father a heart attack?"

She smiled at his turn of phrase. "I promise."

"And not to do any studying at all?"

"Well –"

"Promise. Or I hide the keys."

Her head dipped slightly to one side as she gazed at him, her clear eyes humouring him. "Okay, Dad."

"Then ... I guess it's okay. It'll be like a trial run for Columbia."

"It'll only be a couple of weeks," she assured him, already grabbing her cellphone and starting to send texts.

He smiled, and Kate's heart did a flip, just as it had the day she realised how much he loved his daughter. There was such warmth in it, such pride, and ... grown-upness.

"Fine," he said. "Just don't burn the house down."

"That was you."

"Ah, but that was a great barbecue." He looked at Kate. "I'll tell you later."

Kate laughed. "I'll hold you to that."

Alexis stood up, pushing her chair back. "We need to celebrate. Ice cream?"

"Uh, I don't think there's any left," Rick said, almost apologetically.

"There were six tubs a week ago. You couldn't have eaten it all ..." Alexis stopped, a pink blush burning her cheeks. "Oh."

Rick grinned, enjoying the memories of a certain evening when he and Kate had re-enacted the scene from a certain Mickey Rourke/Kim Basinger film ... "I'll go get some more."

"No, I'll go," Alexis said quickly, happy to get away from her own imaginings of what her father had been doing with that much ice cream. She grabbed her purse and almost ran to the front door. "I won't be long."

"Honestly, Richard," her grandmother's voice followed her out as the door closed.

* * *

In the evening shadows the figure watched the young woman leave the apartment building, waving goodbye to someone still inside. The doorman, probably. As she passed under a streetlight, her fingers busy with her phone, her red hair seemed to flame, but he didn't move to follow. His quarry was still inside ...


	2. Chapter 2

"Wimp."

"You think?"

"I know."

"Right."

"You'll never do it."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Yeah."

"You're on."

The face-off would have continued, but Javier Esposito took advantage of his opponent's momentary distraction as a car horn blared close by to duck around him. He leaped, his fingers pushing the basketball through the hoop.

"No!"

"Yes!" Esposito punched the air.

"Damn it, that's the third time in a row!" Gray Leonard complained, hands on his knees as he tried to get air into his lungs. "When are you going to let me win?" he moaned.

"Never, old man."

"God, yes." Gray straightened up as much as he could, holding his back.

"Go again?" Esposito asked.

"Where do you get all this energy from?"

"Got to do something, bro." He passed the ball from hand to hand. "Best of seven."

"No." Gray nodded towards the side of the public basketball court. "Besides, it looks like you've got company. Because my luck just isn't good enough to have a woman like that waiting on _me_."

Esposito looked across. Lanie Parish stood just outside the fence, resplendent in what looked like a loose blue silk sleeveless top and formfitting black skirt, accessorised by the trademark look on her face that didn't bode well. "Yeah," he agreed on a sigh. "She's for me."

Gray shook his head. "Pity. But I have to get back to work anyway. These lunchtimes have been fun, but I have to go lie down and die somewhere right now."

Esposito laughed and clapped his old friend on the back hard enough to make him stagger. "Tomorrow?"

"Depends on if I can find a portable defibrillator to get my heart started again."

"Well, if you don't, she can do the autopsy. She's an ME."

"Not quite the kind of introduction I would have liked." Gray picked up his things and sauntered to the gate. "And from the looks of things I don't think you want to keep her waiting unless you want to end up on the slab yourself." He grinned and walked out, pausing for a moment next to Lanie. "Here," he said, holding out a $20 bill. "This is his."

She flashed him a warm smile. "Thanks."

"Don't hurt him too much."

"He deserves it."

"Ma'am, I've known Javier for fifteen years. You don't have to tell me." Gray laughed and walked away.

Lanie stepped onto the court but stopped just inside, her foot tapping.

"Hey," Esposito said, picking up a towel and rubbing at his neck.

"Don't you _hey_ me." She crossed her arms. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he countered.

"Not caring if you've got a career or not."

He dried his hands. "Got that right."

"Javier Esposito, have you taken leave entirely of what little senses you have?" She rolled her eyes. "You're a cop. You know you are. That's what you do."

"Maybe I want to try something else." He stuffed the towel into his holdall and picked up the ball. "I've done it before."

He went to walk out past her, anger rolling through him, the same anger he'd felt in Gates' office, but she stopped him, holding something up in front of his face.

"Like what? Basketball hustler? This is yours, by the way. Your winnings."

He took the note and pocketed it. "Thanks. And I have other options."

"Don't tell me. Security guard. Armoured car driver. Or maybe you're planning on seeing what the other side of the fence looks like."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you've had enough experience of trying to catch the bad guys, maybe you've decided to try being one yourself."

His anger peaked, but he held it back. "Lanie, I really don't need this right now."

"Have you got something better to do?"

"Than listen to you haranguing me? Yeah." He went to move by but again she was somehow in his face.

"Have you spoken to Kevin?"

Esposito's eyes hardened. "No. And I don't intend to."

"He's your best friend."

"Not anymore."

"Your partner."

"Partners don't do that."

"They do if they care."

"Lanie –" He couldn't go further because suddenly she was kissing him, her hands cupping his face. He was so surprised he didn't move for the space of three heartbeats, then dropped his bag and wrapped his arms around her, crushing the blue silk.

It had been too long, and even longer before his mind engaged and he managed to grab enough of himself back from where it had gone to push her away enough so he could look into her face. "What is this?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I've had Jenny on the phone," she admitted. "Crying. Telling me how much this is hurting Kevin. She asked me to talk to you."

"So this ..." He stepped back. "This was a bribe?"

"No. I've wanted to do that for some time, but haven't had the courage." Her head came up, defiance in her dark eyes. "But right now this is showing you what you won't be getting unless you talk to Kevin."

"I wasn't getting it before."

"But now you know you would if you did, and you won't if you don't."

His head was starting to spin with the female logic of it all. "Lanie, I can't."

"Then just listen to him." A slight breeze caught her hair, pushing it across her lips. She flicked it away with one finger. "Please, Javi."

He glared at her. "He went behind my back. He went behind _all_ our backs."

"And if he hadn't?"

"That's not the point."

"I think it is." The breeze blew again, lifting a tantalising waft of her fragrance to him. "He saved Kate's life for sure, and probably yours."

He had to remind himself that Lanie knew nothing about the connection between Montgomery's and Johanna Beckett's deaths. More than that, he had no real idea what Ryan had told Gates, but he knew in his heart that it wasn't likely to be anything that could damage their old captain's reputation. "He was my partner, Lanie. We were supposed to look out for each other."

"He thinks he did." Lanie touched his arm, running her fingers down to tangle in his. "Just listen to him. Please."

He didn't know what to do.

* * *

Alexis had gone to the Hamptons with her friends, promising to call often, not to get arrested, and to have a good time. She'd insisted her grandmother accompany her to the station, telling her father he had to stay behind.

"It's a dry run," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "If you can do this then I'll be that much more confident you can keep your promise."

He was going to try, too. Try to keep it, that is. At least she'd agreed to go to Columbia and not the other side of the country, or worse, the other side of the world. And he was going to try not to drop in, to embroil her in games of laser tag, to be the sensible dad for a change. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to at least some of the time, but some was better than none.

He nodded. "I'll be fine," he assured her. "And it's not like I'll be on my own."

Kate had made herself scarce, staying in the study while the fond farewells were taking place.

"Darling, you'll miss your train," Martha reminded them both.

"There are others," Rick said.

"No." Alexis drew herself up to her full height. "If I can't do this now ..."

He understood. He pulled her close for a long moment, knowing it was going to have to keep him going for a long time, two weeks at least, and then kissed her forehead. "Go."

She grinned, her eyes shining. "I'll call when I get there."

"See that you do."

Then the door closed, and it felt like something had ended.

"It's just a holiday."

He turned to see Kate in the doorway to the study, leaning on the frame. "I know."

"You think you've lost her."

"She's growing up." He sighed heavily and walked to the sofa, falling into its soft embrace and laying his head on the back to stare into the ceiling.

"And she will always be your little girl." She sat down next to him.

"Is it like that with you and your dad?" he asked, turning his head enough so he could look into her face.

"Yes. I think it always is, with fathers and their daughters."

"I do try, you know. I mean, she's going to college in the fall, and she'll be up to the kind of things I used to do ..." He shuddered.

"And she's much more sensible than you ever were." She put her hand on his shoulder. "You told me so yourself."

"It doesn't help." He went back to studying the ceiling.

Kate glared at him for a long moment then went to make some lunch to cheer him up.

She was gone back to her apartment for her daily time-out when Martha returned.

"Well?" Rick asked, almost straining at the leash. "Did she get off okay?"

"Of course she did." Martha swept into the apartment. "Why wouldn't she?"

"Oh, I don't know. I thought maybe she'd change her mind and not want to leave her old dad."

"She's going to have a great time with her friends," Martha assured him. "They were already talking about having a party as soon as they get there."

"A party?" Rick's voice almost reached supersonic proportions until he realised. "Ha ha, very funny."

She patted his arm. "She's far too responsible to let anything bad happen."

"That's what Kate said."

"Then believe her if you won't believe me." Martha looked around the loft. "Where is she, by the way?"

"Gone back to her place to shower."

He sounded so despondent that his mother laughed. "Don't worry. There are going to be times in the next few years you'll wish she had a place to go to."

"Years?"

"You never know." She looked in her purse for something. "When did she leave?"

"About fifteen minutes ago."

"So it wasn't her."

"Wasn't who?" Something about her tone, or perhaps it was her distracted nature that alerted his personal radar. "Mother? Who?"

"I ..." She waved it away. "It's silly."

He moved so he was standing in front of her. "What? What's silly?"

"I just thought ..." She paused. "I thought someone was following me."

He glanced towards the windows. "When?"

"Just now. Not that I could see anyone." She shook her head. "It must be my overactive imagination."

"That's my department." He resisted the urge to go and look out. "Any idea who?"

"No. I told you, it was just a feeling."

He felt a pang of something. "Was it before you saw Alexis off?"

"No." She understood. "Oh, no, kiddo. This was on my way back. Nobody's following Alexis."

"Only she's beautiful, young –"

"And she's with almost a dozen friends. Besides, it was well after I was on my way back here."

He took a deep breath. "Probably one of your many admirers."

"Probably," she agreed, although how much was open to debate. She changed the subject. "Have you eaten?" she asked, looking at the clock.

"Mmn. Kate made us something."

"Good. Now be a good boy and go make your aged mother something for _her_ lunch before she has to head to the studio to sort out her summer stock."

"Yes, Mother." Rick chuckled and headed for the kitchen.

* * *

A little over an hour later Martha unlocked the stage door and stepped into the gloom. She breathed in deeply, the special scent of a theatre reaching out and touching her, reviving her as always, a heady mix of sweat, make-up and glue with just a hint of desperation thrown in.

She been very lucky, she knew, in finding the right space for her acting school. She'd looked over a dozen sites, all of them with things to commend them, but not one had called out to her like this had. The owner was selling it remarkably cheaply, mainly because he couldn't get permission to tear it down and build a dozen condos, and his wife was going to get everything in the divorce if he didn't squirrel away some cash pretty quickly. At least, that's was Gloria Nantwich had said, and she should know, since she was sleeping with him.

Not that Martha cared. She'd taken one look at the place and knew she had to have it. Three floors, the top taken up with large rooms that could easily be converted into rehearsal spaces. The second floor was offices, and in her mind's eye she could see her name emblazoned on gold on one of the doors, while the others could be classrooms, a wardrobe department, make-up room ...

But it was the ground floor that sold it to her. Originally it had been a small cinema, showing Citizen Kane to an audience that numbered less than a hundred. Later the films were more of an earthly nature, their clientele almost exclusively men wearing raincoats. It became a bingo hall for a while, but had lain derelict for a few years until the neighbourhood started to pick up, and the time was right for an enterprising woman with some dollars in the bank and a dream in her heart to make it live again.

As Martha stood there for the first time, peering behind the dilapidated screen to see something that made her smile widely, she was already signing the paperwork in her head. It took more money than she had anticipated, but now the screen was gone, revealing the hopes of the original builders that their little cinema could be more than the sum of its parts, and occasionally put on real life dramatic art. A stage, with wings and tabs and footlights ready to roll out.

Better yet, it was all hers.

The entrance from the alley led directly into the backstage area, and as she walked into the darkness she could feel it welcoming her, like the embrace of an old lover caressing her skin once more. At the wall she paused, reaching out to flick the switch that should have bathed the stairs up to her office in a soft glow, but there was nothing. She toggled it up and down, then tutted.

"The bulb must have gone," she murmured to herself, seeing another in the long list of jobs that still needed doing. Then she paused.

Something in the corner of her eye was begging for her attention. She turned her head, wondering what it was, then she saw a faint glow under the door that led onto the stage itself, and a spurt of annoyance flared through her as she realised someone must have left a light on in the theatre.

"I don't have the money for this," she muttered, heading towards it. She threw the door open and strode through.

Shadows had gathered in the darkened theatre, seeming to cluster around a single spotlight that stabbed down to centre stage, illuminating a pile of clothing tossed carelessly into a heap.

Martha could feel her annoyance turning to anger. Not only the light, but now costumes were being left lying around. Someone was going to be chastised very firmly.

She walked across the bare stage, her heels clicking on the floor, and reached down to lift the clothes into her arms. In the microsecond before her hand touched the fabric she knew something was wrong, that it wasn't just costumes, but it was too late. She pulled, and the unexpected weight rolled over.

Martha screamed, the sound ringing through the small theatre and echoing back at her from all angles as she stared into the face of a man, his eyes wide, unseeing, dead.


	3. Chapter 3

_He swept his fingers through her hair, marvelling at how long it had grown since he first met her. Thick, lustrous, it had a life of its own, as if by itself it could entice men to their doom with its siren song._

He stared at what he had just typed, then highlighted the entire paragraph and pressed delete, wiping the words from the screen. He smiled ruefully. If he'd left them in he could just imagine the reviews, let alone what his own personal proof-reader – namely Alexis – would make of them. Besides, Kate had called him a metrosexual once, and it was a description he wasn't keen to live up to.

His gaze was drawn towards the bookcase under the window, where the woman herself was sitting on the floor going through some of his old notes from the cupboard.

When it came to his research he was something of a pack rat. Anything that tickled his fancy he'd make a note of, maybe Google it, letting it ferment inside his fertile imagination until it either flowered or died a death and began to stink up the place. Every once in a while he would go through his scribblings and throw out those that were mouldering corpses, or transfer any that looked like bearing fruit to his laptop.

Kate had found one of his half-finished manuscripts and was engrossed, her head bent low over the block capitals he habitually wrote in. Her hair was held back in a scrunchie, falling in loose waves down her spine, and for a long moment he imagined christening his desk, her dark tresses entangled around his fingers.

This time he grinned. Even his thoughts were getting florid.

"You know, this is good," Kate said, glancing up.

He felt mildly embarrassed at being caught so obviously staring. "It's not bad."

"Then why didn't you finish it?"

"I wrote myself into a corner and couldn't figure a way out."

"Not even 'with one leap he was free'?"

"I'll have you know my books are grounded in reality." He paused just long enough. "Mostly."

"Hmmn."

He chuckled. "I keep forgetting you have them in your library."

"Not anymore."

"What?"

"They got blown up, remember?"

"And you didn't replace them?" He put as much shock into his voice as he could. "How could you?"

"I didn't need them. I had the real thing."

"If you're going to get all mushy I might just throw up."

She smiled, the wide grin that made his insides flip. "Heaven forbid." She waved the manuscript. "Maybe we can work on it together."

"You fancy yourself a writer?"

"I've listened to you expound ridiculous theories often enough."

"Which have, on occasion, turned out to be true."

"A flea using a gun with vanishing bullets?"

He sat back, shaking his head. "Are you ever going to let me forget that?"

"I don't know. Has hell frozen over yet?"

He laughed and she joined in, surprisingly easy, although he knew something subtle had changed in the way they were with each other. After four years they'd become comfortable in each other's company, but that had altered slightly in the last few days, Rick realised. He'd seen this woman in every state imaginable, from grief stricken and inconsolable to determined and single-minded to happy and ... giddy, and yet now he'd seen her naked below him (and above him, for that matter) things were somehow different.

He supposed they had to be: nobody could have a relationship like theirs and take it to the next level without expecting changes. At the moment he wasn't entirely sure he was happy with them, mainly because he kept feeling like he was on a first date, and had to watch what he said and did, like making sure he didn't belch in front of her to stopping himself asking if she was going to stay with him forever. Some things were still off-limits. Right now, though, he was going to take refuge in that comfort.

"Anyway," he went on, "I've got the final chapters of _Frozen Heat_ to get out, then there's the last part of _A Brewing Storm_ … I don't have time to even think about _Jingle_ _Jangle Morning_."

"Interesting title." It sounded as if she didn't like it.

"It's from a song from the 60s. Tambourine Man. _In the jingle jangle morning – _"

"– _I'll come following you_," she finished. "I know. My mom used to play it."

"Mine too."

"Were you going to change it? The title?"

"Is it really that bad?"

"Yes. Well up ... or rather, _down_ to your usual standards."

"Kate, that hurts."

She fixed him with her clear eyes. "Storm Fall? Storm Warning? Heat Wave? Naked Heat?"

"It lets my fans know they're mine."

"I'd have thought the words _Richard Castle_ in big letters on the front of the cover would have given it away."

He chuckled. "So do the cutouts of me in the book stores."

"Then why do it?"

He shrugged. "Habit, I guess."

"You might consider breaking it. Although if _Jingle Jangle Morning_ is the best you can come up with ..."

He laughed. "Talk to my editor."

"Rather not."

"Is that what you'd like, though?" he asked, going back to the original point and honestly interested in the answer. "To be a writer? Because you have so many experiences, so many stories you could tell …"

"Are you suggesting I do my autobiography? The story of my life?"

"So far. The story of your life _so far_." He almost did air quotes to emphasise it. "And why not? In fact, please. Most cop biographies are written by grizzled men in their sixties, with beer guts and bad breath. Believe me, I've met a few at Black Pawn."

"Didn't fancy following them around, then?" she teased.

"Detective Slaughter was enough." He shuddered then grinned. "Anyway, I have you."

"And I'm an _ex_-cop."

"You know, if you keep picking at it, it'll never get better."

"It won't heal, Rick. It's not like a cut, or a graze, or a bullet wound." Her hand went without thinking to the scar between her breasts. "I'll always be an ex-cop."

"Your choice."

"Yes. And I'm not blaming anyone. I chose."

"Then write it all down," he advised. "It can be a cathartic experience. I got over two marriages pretty much by putting it all onto paper. Besides, it might become a bestseller, especially with my advice. You could make a lot of money." He looked at her from under his eyebrows. "And cash will come in handy. I'm not going to pay for everything forever."

She laughed, a truly happy sound. "So what you said before, offering to keep me, was a lie?"

"Of course. Just to get you into my bed." The eyebrows waggled. "You pay your own way or you get out, woman."

"No wonder you've been divorced twice."

He sat back, amusement warming his blue eyes. "Oh, there was a lot more to it than that. But I really do think you should write about your cases. Change the names to protect the guilty, make it seem like you're Wonder Woman, but it might be good for you. And it would stop you from going through my stuff."

"Don't you like _your_ privacy invaded?" she asked, a knowing look in her eyes.

He ignored the sub-text. "We could go on late night talk shows together. The Nick and Nora Charles of our times."

"I don't think so."

"Why? What's wrong with the Charles's?"

"A – they were fictional." She ticked the points off on her fingers. "B – they weren't writers. And C – they were married."

Rick's cell phone rang, and as he reached for it he said, "That can be remedied. And besides, I make a great martini." He looked at the screen. "And here's the woman who can testify to that." He thumbed 'answer'. "Mother. Ringing to see if you were interrupting us?"

"_Oh, Richard!"_

He sat up straight. "Mother, what's wrong?" There had been such a wealth of emotion in just those two words that he knew something was wrong.

"_There's … a body."_

"What?" He stood up as if the action could help. "A body? Where?"

Kate looked up, startled.

He quickly put it onto speaker, holding it out so Martha's voice filled the study.

"_In my studio. On the stage."_ For a brief moment annoyance won out over anxiety, but it was only a moment. _"He's dead, Richard."_

"Are you sure?"

"_Of course I'm sure. I tried his pulse. He's … he's still warm."_

Kate had got to her feet. "Martha. Have you called the police?"

"_No. Just you. Can't you deal with it?"_

"I'm not a cop anymore." Kate started to wonder if she shouldn't have a t-shirt made with those exact words on it. "Call them. Are you still inside?"

"_Yes. I'm by the stage door."_ She didn't have to say she had no intention of staying with the body.

"Then leave. Go outside, call 911 and wait for the police to arrive."

"_You don't think – "_ Martha's voice caught.

"I just don't want you disturbing the scene," Kate said firmly.

"Do what Kate says," Rick added. "And we're coming."

"_Oh, Richard, thank you."_ The relief was palpable. _"Hurry."_

The call disconnected.

Rick hadn't taken his gaze off Kate. "You think the murderer might still be in the building?"

"If it is a murder. It might be a homeless guy, an accident ..." She shrugged. "But still warm? Better to be safe than sorry."

"Yes. Thanks."

"For what? I haven't done anything."

He headed for the door. "I don't know. I just have the funny feeling that you will."

As she followed him, Kate wondered just how prophetic his words were going to be.

* * *

Martha had regained her composure by the time Rick and Kate arrived at the theatre. The alleyway wasn't wide enough for more than one car at a time, and a non-descript dark-coloured Ford blocked one end, while the other was filled with one of the ME's vans, so they parked on the road and walked the short distance.

As they passed the van, its back doors wide open, Rick asked, "Lanie?" He hadn't seen Dr Parish since Kate's resignation. He knew they'd talked but that was about all.

Kate shrugged. "There are other MEs."

He wondered at her dismissal, but realised Lanie had probably berated her best friend as much as sympathised, something only a true friend would dare to do. He'd had times like that himself in the past, and he knew it could take a while to get over. "Perlmutter?" he suggested.

Kate ignored him. "There's Martha."

His mother was standing outside the stage door talking quietly to a uniformed officer, but she saw them approach and held out her hands to grasp theirs. "Darlings."

"Are you okay?" Rick asked, searching her face for signs of stress, but she was too good an actress to let any show.

"I'm fine now," she assured him. "I've been having a nice chat with Ben, here." She indicated the officer, who blushed across high cheekbones. "It turns out his mother and I were in a play together once." She smiled at him, and the colour heightened.

Kate nodded at the young man. "We just need a minute, Buchansky."

"Of course, Detective." He nodded, either not knowing she'd resigned or just grateful for the opportunity to move away.

"Mother, he's half your age," Rick complained quietly once he was out of earshot.

"Not quite."

"He's younger than me!"

"Exactly."

Rick felt the anxiety unknot inside him. If his mother was flirting, even as an automatic response, that meant she wasn't too traumatised.

"So what happened, Martha?" Kate asked, reassured by the relaxation of Rick's shoulders and wanting to get back to business.

"I came in to make some calls. Some of the numbers are in my Rolodex so I was going to use my office, set up some of the rehearsals, that sort of thing. Only someone had left a spot lit on the stage, and that's where I found ..." She shuddered, but at least some of that was theatricality, because that was what a person did when they discovered a body.

"Do you know who he was?"

"I didn't go through his pockets, if that's what you mean." A trace of annoyance, another good sign.

Kate smiled. "No. I meant did you recognise him. Generally."

"No. Not that I looked that closely," Martha admitted. "Who would do this?"

"Do what?" Rick asked.

"Kill someone on _my_stage."

"We don't know they did," Kate pointed out. "Was there blood? A wound of any kind?"

"Kate." Rick's voice cut through, low but warning.

"It's okay, darling," Martha said, putting her hand on his arm. "She's only doing her job."

"Not mine." Kate looked at the stage door. "But maybe I still have enough influence to find out what's going on."


	4. Chapter 4

Detective Megan Dalwood was unassuming. Most people didn't even notice her, except maybe in the negative. She wasn't too tall or too short, her hair wasn't truly mousy or truly blonde, she wasn't fat or thin – just ordinary. If anyone had been asked to pick her out of a line-up they'd have been hard-pressed to recognise her.

Not that she particularly minded. She'd made something of a career out of that very ordinariness, finding herself in demand in certain circles for undercover jobs, in one case bringing down a burgeoning drug cartel because the would-be overlords didn't even notice her as she filled their water glasses in their own restaurant.

Even centre stage, standing over a corpse, she didn't impress. All the available lights had been put on, including those in the small auditorium, but in her self-imposed uniform of brown pants and cream blouse, she looked like she was still only ever going to be a spear carrier.

"Well?" she asked, gazing at the man crouched over the body, and ignoring a young woman taking crime scene photos.

"It's not a murder."

"You can be sure of that?"

Harry O'Connor, the city of New York's most senior ME, straightened up as much as he could and tucked his shirt back inside his pants where it had come adrift at the back. The wrong side of sixty, he looked as if he had been pickled for decades in formaldehyde, his skin an odd, almost greyish colour that spoke of too many days inside bent over all manner of decay, and not enough sunshine. Someone overburdened with imagination could have wondered if he was a vampire, except for the slightly sunken aspect of his mouth that suggested he might not have all his own teeth.

He cleared his throat. "There's no sign of trauma, no blood. He's not contorted particularly, but his lips are blue. I'd say heart attack."

Kate bristled from where she stood in the shadows of the wings. No Medical Examiner should give a verdict that quickly, even one as experienced as O'Connor.

Megan didn't seem to agree. "Good. I've got too much on my plate anyway at the moment, and I'm sure the CSUs won't mind not having to process this place." She looked up at her colleague. "Did you get everything?"

The photographer nodded. "Yes. I can have them ready for you when you get back." A slight accent blurred some of the consonants.

"No need to rush." Megan glanced at her watch and turned back to the ME. "Time of death?"

"Rigor hasn't even begun to set, body temp is only down a couple of degrees ..." O'Connor sucked air through his teeth. "An hour, tops."

"Excellent." She made a note in her pad as the photographer walked off the stage, smiling briefly at the people waiting in the shadows of the wings.

O'Connor seemed to recall himself. "I'll need to do an autopsy of course, unless we find he's seen his doctor in the past couple of weeks, but I'm fairly sure that'll be my findings." He held out a wallet. "This was in his inside pocket."

Megan took it and flipped it open, her latex-gloved fingers turning surely to the driver's license. "Clive Sheldon. Says he lives –"

"Clive?" Martha, having followed Kate and Rick inside, couldn't help herself.

Megan turned, her forehead furrowed as she stared into the shadows, her hand close to the weapon at her waist. "Who's there?"

Rick turned to his mother, his brow furrowed. "Are you okay?" Even in the gloom her face had gone about as white as he'd ever known it.

Martha swallowed hard, then nodded. "I ... I'm fine."

"Who's there?" Megan repeated, sharper this time, her fingers closing around the butt of her gun. "Come out, now."

"Or what?" Kate asked, stepping into the light. "You're going to shoot us?"

Megan focused her one asset, her clear violet eyes, on the other woman. "Kate Beckett. What a pleasant surprise." She didn't sound it.

"Megan Dalwood." Kate's tone was equally friendly.

Megan gave a small bird-like tilt to her head, a smile barely cracking her face. "And to what do I owe this dubious honour?"

Rick took two steps forward, physically interrupting the glaring match and holding out his hand. "We're here because Martha Rodgers is my mother. And I'm –"

"Detective Beckett's tame writer," Megan finished, ignoring his attempt at courtesy. "Yes, I know." She transferred her gaze back to Kate. "Only it's not detective any more, is it?"

"Bad news travels fast," Kate said.

O'Connor signalled his techs to bag up the body and get it onto the waiting gurney, but all of his attention was on the confrontation.

"Even faster when it's something I never expected to hear." Megan studied the other woman. "I thought you were in it for the long haul."

"So did I. But things change."

"They certainly do. Quite dramatically, if the rumours are true." Megan shook her head. "Going rogue. Not your style, surely."

"Like I said, things change."

"And you're not a cop anymore, meaning you shouldn't be here."

Kate stood her ground. "Martha's my friend. And right now that's what she needs, don't you think?"

Megan's cool gaze didn't waver, her thoughts inscrutable, but she nodded, just once. "Fine. Don't get in my way." She looked at Martha. "I thought I asked you to wait outside."

"You did," Martha confirmed. "But I ..." She shrugged delicately. "I wanted to know what was going on."

"At least you're honest, but you do know what curiosity did to the cat." Megan went on quickly, "Mrs Rodgers, do you think you know the dead man?"

Martha licked dry lips. "Well, I know a Clive Sheldon. We've been friends for a long time. But I can't believe that's him."

O'Connor clicked his fingers twice and pointed down. The techs, about to push the gurney off the stage, paused.

"Does the Clive Sheldon you know live at 12 East 71st Street?"

"Yes. I mean, he's got other homes, one in the Hamptons, and an apartment in Paris –"

"Then would you mind taking a closer look?" Megan asked, not letting her finish. "I realise it's upsetting for you, but ..." She glanced at the licence again. "It would be useful for us to know if we've got the right man to go with the ID, don't you think?"

"Of ... of course."

"Mother, I'm here," Rick murmured, taking her arm. "I've met Clive, I can –"

"No. I can do this." She patted his hand. "Besides, Alexis has done it. Seen dead bodies. So have you."

"I've had more experience."

"You say that like it's a good thing. No. I have to do this." Martha straightened her back and walked forward, taking possession of the stage as she had always done. "Let me see."

O'Connor unzipped the bag, pulling it open enough so she could see inside. "Take your time, Mrs Rodgers," he advised. "And remember, dead folk don't look like their living counterparts."

"Yes. Thank you." She leaned forward, studying the face revealed. Then she made a sound like the breath had caught in her throat.

"What is it?" Megan was immediately at her side.

"He's wearing a wig," Martha said, surprised. "And make-up."

O'Connor reached into the bag and pushed at the hair, which moved back to reveal a high, bald head. "Well, I'll be ... she's right." He wiped at the face, examining the flesh-coloured stain on his gloves. "And about the make-up, too."

"I'm an actress," Martha said, almost automatically, still gazing into the body bag. "I know about these things."

"Mrs Rodgers," Megan insisted, not worrying about the implications as yet. "Is it Clive Sheldon?"

Martha nodded slowly, her fingers plucking unnoticed at the bracelet on her wrist. "Yes. Yes, it's him."

"Fine." Megan beckoned the techs who zipped the bag back up and wheeled the body out to the waiting van.

Martha's gaze followed, only broken when she felt someone close to her. She refocused on the grey features of the ME.

"You know, I saw you once, just off Broadway," O'Connor said confidentially. "_Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_, I believe. You played Maggie."

"That was a long time ago," Martha said, managing to find a smile from somewhere, fixing it slightly crookedly to her lips just for him. "I was a lot younger."

"Not that much. And in that little slip? You were stunning." O'Connor shook his head. "And you haven't changed."

"Thank you so much. It's always wonderful to have one's work appreciated." She put her hand on his arm, and for a moment blood flushed through his grey skin.

Megan coughed pointedly.

"Yes, well, I ... have work to be getting on with," O'Connor stammered and stepped back. Glancing at Megan he added, "You'll have my report on your desk shortly."

"Thank you, Dr O'Connor."

He hurried out, only glancing back at Martha once and waggling his fingers vaguely.

"I think you've made another conquest there, Mother," Rick said.

"Oh, hush."

Megan was ready to go. "Mrs Rodgers, I need you to come down to the precinct to make a formal statement, but I'd say it's pretty cut and dried."

"But not today," Rick said firmly, taking his mother's arm again. "After this sort of shock ..." He left the implications hanging.

"Tomorrow will be fine," Megan said, stripping the latex gloves from her hands with a snap and pushing them and her notebook into her pants pocket. "If the doc's right and it's natural causes, that's soon enough." A thought occurred to her. "Was Clive Sheldon married?"

Martha nodded. "Yes. Grace. She's in the Hamptons at the moment." Her free hand fluttered to her throat. "This is going to devastate her. And their son."

"Then she can give us the formal ID."

"And the disguise?" Kate asked, unable to hold her tongue any longer. "What about that?"

"We'll look into it," Megan said, dismissing either Kate or the notion of a disguise, or both.

"Do you think he was the man following you?" Rick asked his mother.

Martha looked taken aback. "I ... I don't know. Possibly."

Kate was about to speak, but Megan got in first. "Did you report this to anyone?"

"No. No, of course not. It was just a feeling." Martha waved her hand. "Besides, this is New York. If everyone reported when they thought someone was following them, the police wouldn't ever have the time to catch the bad guys."

"But you can't say if it was Clive Sheldon or not?"

Martha shook her head. "No. I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Well, I'll make a note of it, but I doubt it's important." She strode for the stage door.

"Just one thing," Kate said, stopping her in her tracks. "How did he get in?"

"I hadn't thought of that," Martha muttered.

"There's an open window in one of the toilets at the back," Megan said, somewhat smugly. "The catch has been forced and there's fresh scuff marks on the windowsill." She smiled. "Some of us still know how to do old-fashioned police work." She strutted out, or at least as much as someone of her apparent insignificance could do.

"Was I like that?" Kate asked, keeping her voice low.

"No," Rick assured her. "Never. You didn't treat potential witnesses with anything but the greatest respect."

She smiled, just a quick flash of teeth. "That I can't believe."

"Trust me. I was watching."

"I'm sure you were."

He grinned and turned to Martha. "Mother, why don't you wait outside? Give me the keys. I'll lock up."

His mother shook her head firmly. "No, that's not necessary. And I have things to do. Those telephone calls, deciding on which plays to put on –"

"Can all be done at home," he interrupted. "And I'll get your Rolodex from the office, and arrange for someone to come in, make sure that window's secure."

"And I'll wait here until they come," Kate offered. "No need for all of us to hang around."

"No, I can't let you," Martha protested, but her gaze was drawn back to the centre stage.

"Of course I can. It's the least I can do." Kate tucked her arm around Martha's. "Come on. I think I need some fresh air, don't you?"

"I ... suppose."

Rick nodded at Kate gratefully, seeing them to the outside door before turning back to the lighting board and plunging the stage back into darkness. The shadows seemed to crowd around him as he hurried up to the offices above.

His mother had purloined the one with the largest windows, giving the best view, and his experienced eye noted one or two items that he was sure had been in the loft only a short while ago, including the little silver dog statuette. It still looked bare, though, with a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet, and he could understand her wanting to make it seem more like home, even on the limited budget she had.

He looked out of the window, his eyes ranging up and down the street below. He knew his mother had been lucky to find this place, particularly at the price she had. Even with a million dollar legacy from Chet that kind of cash didn't go far in the city. He smiled a little, his reflection copying him. He was never going to tell her that he'd put out a few feelers, called in a favour or two in order that she should get above decent terms, especially not after the way she reacted when he offered to pay for the repairs that time, and look how that turned out.

He still didn't believe that the bank robbers had blown themselves up, and there was part of him that said it was all part of the plot, that they'd arranged it that way with cadavers and body parts from the local medical school, and they were really off somewhere in a non-extradition country enjoying the fruits of their labours. In fact, he wouldn't mind betting that at some time in the future he could easily hear of their exploits again.

"Not getting the job done, Ricky," he admonished himself, and flicked through the numbers on his cell to call the locksmith he always used.

Five minutes later and he was back on the darkened stair, his mother's Rolodex in his hand. He turned the corner, away from any ambient light, and paused. Something had made a noise somewhere in the shadows.

He felt his heartbeat quicken, and his imagination was its usual helpful self, throwing up a number of possible causes, from the ghosts of old cinemagoers, perpetual in their grey raincoats, to a murderer who knew how to kill with just a look, leaving no blood or wound of any kind.

A scuttling sound indicated a more prosaic source, but he still wasn't happy about sharing the darkness with rats, any more than potential killers. He'd once faced down a tiger in a cellar, but rats were something else, especially if they weren't white and lived in a cage on gourmet food.

Leaving the rodents to their own activities and making a mental note to suggest his mother change her exterminator, he hurried out into the somehow cleaner air outside.

Kate was waiting just by the door, amusement on her face as if she'd just been reading his thoughts.

"Where's my mother?" he asked. "Not bundled into one of the dumpsters?" He made it sound almost hopeful.

Kate gave him that look. "She's waiting in the car." She held out the keys. "Here."

He took them, swapping them for the keys to the theatre. "The locksmith said he'd be here in about fifteen minutes, but how will you get back?"

She shrugged. "I'll get a cab. I want to have a poke around anyway."

"Take a look at the scene of the crime?"

"We don't know there was one."

"Clive Sheldon broke into my mother's studio. There's one for a start."

"And she's not told us everything."

Rick looked at her with renewed respect. "And I thought I was the only one who knew my mother's tells."

"I don't what it is, but ..." She couldn't find quite the right words.

"She's playing a part," Rick supplied. "This isn't Martha Rodgers. This is _Martha Rodgers_, in bright lights and underlined three times, the woman who found the body."

"Yes. Yes, that's it." She pursed her lips slightly. "Besides, I don't like the way Megan Dalwood just dismisses it. There are a lot of questions I'd be asking if I were working the case."

He understood. He had a lot himself. "So you're going to call Ryan?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because your guts are shouting that this isn't a heart attack about as much as mine are."

"Can we keep our guts out of this?"

He grinned and tossed the car keys into the air, catching them easily. "See you back at the loft. And mind the rats."

* * *

Heat seemed to be radiating off the asphalt roof of the precinct, and Esposito immediately felt his t-shirt stick to his back, the black tar seeming to grab at his trainers. It had always been a suntrap, even on winter days, and as the city headed into summer the temperature was definitely rising.

He really didn't want to be here, and certainly didn't want to be doing what he was about to do, but he'd promised Lanie. They'd been getting on so much better since Ryan's wedding, and he found himself hoping ... anyway, he'd said he would so here he was.

He stepped towards the edge, catching a slight movement of the air that bent around the blocks containing the elevator winding gear, and he stood still, enjoying the feel of it on his skin as he watched the sun slip towards the horizon, looking huge and red.

A door opened behind him but he didn't turn.

"Javi?"

Esposito stayed where he was. "Yes."

Ryan came around into his line of sight, his feet scrunching the small stones that littered the roof. "Hi." He looked like a puppy who was afraid of the retribution about to come his way.

Esposito's glare was as hot as the tarmac. "Just so you know, I'm not here out of choice. Lanie said she'd never talk to me again if I didn't."

"I know. And I'm grateful. I've wanted to talk since ... then." Another roof, he seemed about to say, but the words didn't pass his lips.

"I haven't."

"I figured that when you didn't take my calls." Ryan took a tentative step closer. "Javi, I know how you feel –"

Esposito exploded. "No, you don't." His hands were in fists. "If you did you wouldn't have ... we should have each other's backs, bro!"

Ryan nodded, encouraged by the inadvertent use of 'bro'. "I did."

"Shit way of showing it."

"Javi, I was scared. For you and Beckett. You know I'm behind you, keeping you safe. I'd take a bullet for you, you know that. But this was out of control."

"I was backing Beckett up!"

"And she nearly died." Ryan kept his voice low, deliberately not provoking the hot-blooded Latino. "If I hadn't –"

"Yeah," Esposito interrupted. "I know." He felt conflict rise up inside, churning his guts until he wondered if he was about to throw up. "But you don't go to Gates. You just don't."

"Nobody else would listen. Castle tried and Beckett cut him down so far I'm surprised he's got up yet. And nobody listened to me either."

"We had a lead."

"On someone who had already tried to kill Beckett. Someone incredibly dangerous."

Esposito was about to protest, but the memory of how easily he'd been overcome whispered in his ear. "It's just ..."

Ryan nodded. "I know. We want to do this ourselves, keep it in the family. But sometimes we're not enough."

"We should be."

"I know it feels wrong. But I know you know she went too far." No need to say who 'she' was.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. And you're not stupid enough to say it doesn't."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

Ryan barked a laugh, just once. "Pretty much entirely the opposite." He glanced over the edge of the roof. "Look, if it'll make you feel any better, if you really think you're right and I was wrong, throw me off."

"What?"

"Right now. Push me over. Because if it was either me or Beckett, I'd rather it was me."

"Jenny wouldn't agree."

"No, well, that's true and I'd prefer it wasn't either of us."

Esposito stared at his partner, and felt some of the anger drain away. "Damn it, bro, have you been licking the Barney Stone?"

"Blarney Stone," Ryan corrected him, but only gently. "And believe me, there've been a number of times this past week I've seriously considered packing Jenny up and running away to Ireland."

"If you did that, who else would I get annoyed at?"

Ryan smiled, feeling as if his face was cracking from lack of use. "Can't get rid of me that easily."

"I'm still mad at you."

"Fine. That's honestly okay. Just so long as we talk."

Esposito grunted and lowered himself onto the small parapet. "I don't know what to think. Not anymore."

Ryan sat down next to him, not quite touching. "Things are changing."

"Beckett resigning. I ..." He exhaled heavily. "I didn't think I'd ever see that."

"No, me neither." Ryan sighed in agreement. "I thought she'd always be a cop. I had visions of her in twenty years time being Commissioner."

"Nah. Lieutenant, maybe, but still on the front line. Beckett'd never go for a desk job."

"Maybe not before, but she's not a cop now."

"Not a cop." Esposito shook his head. "What's she going to do with herself?"

"You mean you don't know?" Ryan had that look on his face, the one that said _I know something you don't know_, the one guaranteed to annoy his partner.

"Don't know what?"

"Her and Castle."

"What about them?"

"They're ... together."

"Together?" His brows lifted. "As in ... together?"

Ryan smirked. "As in."

"Well, I'll be ..."

"Lanie didn't tell you?"

"No. She didn't." He could feel his annoyance building back up. "Damn it, how come I'm the last to know?"

Ryan's cell rang. "No idea." He grinned even wider and took it from his pocket. "Ryan."

"_Kevin, it's Kate."_


	5. Chapter 5

As Kate approached the loft door she could smell food. More than that, there was the perfume of spices, tantalising and threatening at the same time. She knocked.

The door was flung open and she was almost overwhelmed by a hundred scents so powerful that it was almost like a physical force.

"Mother's cooking," Rick explained. "You might want to duck."

"It smells ... interesting." In fact her eyes were beginning to tear up.

"You get used to it," he said, handing her a tissue with a sympathetic smile.

"Darling!" Martha exclaimed from the kitchen, waving a slotted spoon. "I hope you're hungry!"

"Peckish."

"There's going to be plenty."

"There always is," Rick commented, _sotto voce._

Kate had experienced Martha's cuisine on more than one occasion, and didn't need to be told.

"It'll be won't be long, but you kids get comfortable," Martha added, turning to a bubbling saucepan and stirring vigorously.

"Kids?" Kate mouthed at Rick.

"Just enjoy the moment," he whispered back, taking her hand and pulling her towards the couch. He dropped into its softness and she joined him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He grinned. "Hey."

"Hey."

"So how's your day been, darling?"

She played along. "Oh, the usual. Shopping, tennis with the girls, brunch, shopping, tea, shopping ..."

He nodded gravely. "That busy."

"Absolutely. And you?"

"Oh, I've had my nose to the grindstone. See?" He leaned forward and lifted her chin so she could get a good look.

"I think you've got a while before it wears totally away," she said, examining it critically.

"I'd be insulted if I didn't agree with you." They both laughed before he glanced towards the kitchen to make sure his mother had her back turned. "So did you find anything?" he asked in a quieter voice.

"Not really. Megan was right – Sheldon must have climbed in through that window. It was forced from the outside."

"By Clive?"

"Probably. The marks are fresh."

"Not very secure."

"No. In fact, I'm surprised those windows aren't barred."

"I'll get someone to take a look," Rick promised. "Make sure the whole place is better protected."

"Won't Martha object? _Her_ studio and all that?"

"I'll tell her it's part of the insurance review for this place." At the narrowing of her eyes into disbelief he shrugged, endeavouring to look innocent. "So I'm getting someone to take a look at security for the loft."

"I thought it _was_ secure."

"It is," he assured her quickly. "It's just ... we know what crooks are like, how they keep evolving. I'm just trying to stay one step ahead of the enterprising burglar." _Besides, he's still out there,_ he wanted to add, knowing what still on occasion woke him in the middle of the night.

"Good idea." She understood, even the thoughts he hadn't said. "Think she'll go for it?" she asked, deciding to answer the words instead.

"I think she'll look at me just the way you did and make me pay long and hard, but someone violated her space, and I don't think she'll mind that much."

"You hope."

"Always." He smiled a little then asked, "So you think Sheldon was alone?"

"No sign of another person," Kate admitted. "Where there were footprints in the dust it was only one pair, and they looked like they matched the dead man's footwear."

"You noticed his shoes?"

"I notice everything, Castle."

"I suppose it doesn't just switch off. Being observant," he clarified.

"I guess it doesn't." She looked mildly surprised at the revelation, then went on, "If it were my case I'd probably say he broke in, for some as yet unknown reason in make-up and a wig, got to the stage and had a heart attack."

"So you agree with Megan Dalwood."

"Not agree. But I can see the logic. Although I'd wait until I got the PM results."

He hadn't expected anything less. "What did Ryan say?"

"He's going to keep an eye on it. It's not in our jurisdiction, but he has friends in the 14th from when he was with Vice."

Rick put his hand on her thigh. "Thanks."

"What for?"

"Indulging me."

"It's not an indulgence. Your mother will need to know. _I_ would, if we found a dead body at my place."

He laughed. "You know, I think that's one place we haven't. Found a body."

"What about the dead woman left outside my front door?" she reminded him of the time shortly before her old apartment got blown up, with her in it.

"That was different. _She_ found _us_." He chuckled again. "Thanks anyway. Oh, and before I forget …" He shifted onto one buttock and lifted his hip so he could reach into his pants pocket, pulling something small and shiny out. "These are for you." He held up a tiny pair of handcuffs, two keys swinging from them.

"To your heart?" she asked.

"And the executive washroom." He grinned. "Front door," he enumerated, lifting one. "And security door downstairs."

"To ... here."

"No, to some stranger's apartment. Yes, to here." He waggled them. "Like the keyring?"

"Interesting." She still hadn't taken them.

"Technically I think they're thumb cuffs, at least that's what the woman in this interesting little shop told me when I went in to buy them. I can imagine they're pretty effective, too, if you've got your hands behind your back." He dropped his head a little to look into her face. "Kate?"

She didn't answer, just stared at the keys, and it was with a blinding flash that Rick realised this was a big step for her. He thought it was something simple, making it easier for her to come and go as she pleased, but it suddenly occurred to him that in her eyes it was of major importance.

He hadn't appreciated it before, not consciously, but _she_ was coming to _him_, not the other way around. He'd declared himself, told her how she felt. Told her how he felt as she was dying, moreover, and it had been her choice not to acknowledge it. Now she had. She'd worked through the things that needed working through, more or less, and she'd come to him. But this meant an even bigger change and he wasn't sure she was ready.

Taking the keys meant more than just access to the apartment, but becoming part of his family, and maybe it scared her.

If she didn't take them he didn't know what he was going to do. Make a joke of it, obviously, keep pressing them on her, but how it would _feel_, whether it would be a step backwards or a rejection ... he had no idea. And at that moment in time he also had no idea what was going through Kate's mind, whether somehow he'd inadvertently stepped over that invisible line.

Her face was inscrutable, expressionless, except he'd learned her face was never without expression, even if it was just the smallest tightening of her eyes or pursing of her lips.

She looked up at him. "You do realise this means your porn collection isn't safe."

He released the breath he hadn't known he was holding and grinned. "For you, Kate, I'd get rid of it."

"Really?"

"I'd bequeath it to Ryan and Esposito."

"Ryan's married."

"Then Esposito would be the beneficiary of my largesse."

"No, don't worry. I wouldn't do that. Besides, there might be something interesting in it."

His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "Katherine Beckett. I would never have guessed."

She smiled and grabbed the keys from his fingers, pushing them into her pocket. "Then you don't know me as well as you thought you did."

"No," he admitted, relief seeping from his pores like perspiration. "I've come to realise I probably never will. But what a goal in life."

She laughed, almost a girlish giggle. "In your dreams."

"Definitely. And more than likely with those thumb cuffs."

"I'm changing _those_."

"Spoilsport."

She laughed again.

Martha called from the kitchen. "If I was in a western and had a big iron triangle I'd be bashing the hell out of it."

"You would?" Rick asked, imagining the impossible.

"Well, I'd get someone to do it for me," Martha admitted. "But dinner is served."

Rick got to his feet and held out his hand to help Kate to hers. "I've got lots of indigestion tablets ready," he promised quietly.

"Thanks."

* * *

They carefully didn't talk about Clive Sheldon, but conversed about almost every other subject under the sun, it seemed. Martha was her usual gay, intelligent, witty self, trading stories of previous jobs and relationships with Rick's more risqué reminiscences, and Kate finally learned just why he'd been nude when he stole the police horse. Sorry – _borrowed_.

It was only after they'd watched the latest Joss Whedon on pay-per-view and then decided an early-ish night was in order that Kate tackled Rick.

"She's not okay, is she?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her as she kicked off her sneakers. Since she stopped being a cop she'd also stopped wearing the four-inch heels, and her feet, at least, were getting the benefit. "No." He sighed and shook his head. "She's not."

"We get so used to it. Seeing bodies almost every day. We forget what a shock it has to be."

"I always thought my mother was unshockable. Except when I told her I was marrying Gina, of course."

"She didn't approve?"

"That would be an understatement."

"And you're trying to change the subject."

"So you don't want to know what she said to me that evening?"

"Later." Kate stripped off her t-shirt and undid her bra, letting the straps fall from her shoulders.

As his body began to think of more pleasurable things, a small part of his mind wondered if seeing Kate Beckett get naked in front of him would ever get old. He decided not. "Do you think it would help if she saw someone? A therapist?"

Kate paused in the action of pushing her pants down her legs. "Maybe. But she's strong. I think she'll be okay."

"Except she's not telling us everything."

"No. Do you want me to talk to her?"

"You could try. But not right now."

Kate stood straight, her hands on her hips, wearing nothing but stretch red lace micro-shorts. "Can you think of anything better to do?"

He grinned.

* * *

_Kate was dying. The hole in her chest was huge, big enough for a fist, and there was nothing he could do to stop the bleeding. His black shirt was already soaked, and he could feel he was kneeling in a lake of warmth, yet there was always more. She was staring at him, her clear eyes clouding, trying to talk, but the words were drowning in her throat. He wanted to speak, to say something, to tell her how he felt, but his tongue wouldn't work, filling his mouth and stopping his breath. He had to do something, but his hands were not obeying him, just useless lumps of flesh at the end of his arms ..._

His eyes slammed open and he stared into the darkness above the bed, struggling to get air into his lungs. Sweat beaded his forehead, and from the pounding behind his ribs he'd have thought that he'd run a mile, and not just had a dream.

It had been a few months since he'd woken crying, but he knew even before he wiped at his cheeks that they were wet. The dream had finally faded, but he knew why it was back. Now he had even more to lose.

He looked across, the small amount of light from between the curtains letting him see Kate hadn't woken. Her eyes were still closed as she breathed slowly, her face turned slightly away from him, her hair fanned out on the pillow like a halo. One arm was thrown over her head, and he could imagine he could see the pulse in the hollows of her throat.

As much as he wanted to snuggle back down, to pull her into him and hold her close, he knew if he did there was a distinct possibility he'd slip back into the dream, and just the thought made his heart rate climb. Better to go and zap some milk in the microwave and wait for it to work.

Sliding out of the bed, he picked up his robe from the chair and shrugged it on, smiling at her sleeping form before heading out into the living area.

In the doorway he paused.

Most of the apartment was in darkness, only the glow from the city giving an orange flush to the windows, but a single table lamp illuminated Martha, or more specifically, the album on her lap.

"Mother?"

"Oh, hey, kiddo." She smiled. "Can't sleep?"

"No." He wasn't about to tell her about the dream. "Too much on my mind, I suppose." He sat down next to her, drawing his robe around his knees. "You?"

"Pretty much the same."

"Is that why you're looking at memories?"

"My past," she said, stroking one of the photos. "Funny, isn't it, how we want to record it, keep it locked safely away in case it might change in the remembering."

His lips curved. "I know where I got my writerly talent from." He leaned on the back of the sofa. "And yes, I agree."

"Don't slouch, dear, it's not good for your posture."

"So why the reminiscing?" he asked, ignoring her comment even as his spine tried to sit up straighter. "Just because of Clive Sheldon?"

She nodded. "It brought back so much."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

"It might help you to sleep."

Martha looked indecisive, then turned a page in the album. "Look. There's us, that summer in the Hamptons."

It was a photo of four adults and three children, and Rick was surprised to recognise himself as the youngest boy. "I don't remember this."

"You were five, and it was a party at the Maidstone Country Club." She ran her finger down the face of the woman on the left, vibrantly red-haired and laughing. "I was so young. And beautiful."

"You're still beautiful." He put his hand on hers. "_Age shall not wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety_."

"Quoting Shakespeare at this time of night?" Martha was amused.

"You're not the only one feeling introspective." He studied the face of the man with his arm around his mother. "Uncle Freddie."

"Mmn. A mistake." She sighed. "The money was nice, but the rest left a lot to be desired."

"I remember the sun shining a lot."

"It always does in memories." She tapped the other man. "That's Clive."

"Really?" Rick leaned closer. "But he's got hair."

Martha laughed lightly. "I know."

"When did he start to lose it?"

"It was getting thin even then, but I think within a year it was gone. Grace always said it was the stress."

"Stress?"

Martha waved it away, obviously annoyed with herself for saying anything. "Nothing."

"Mother."

She glared at him. "It's nothing."

"Then tell me."

For a long moment she was silent, then eventually said, "It was a bad few years for them. The court case, then Emily dying, it wasn't surprising he couldn't hold onto his hair."

"Emily?"

"Their daughter. She drowned, only a little while after the photo was taken. I have to say, I think this was the last time Grace was ever truly happy."

Rick looked down at the photo again, at the other woman smiling broadly, at the little girl with the blonde pigtails. "Emily ..." A vague memory stirred, of days on the beach, collections of seashells and someone who helped build sandcastles. "She used to tell me stories."

Martha smiled sadly. "She thought you were sweet."

"How right she was." He tried to remember. "What happened to her?"

"She was two years older than you, and Clive took her out on their boat. She wasn't wearing a life jacket – well, it wasn't felt necessary so much as it is now, and she could swim. They thought she must have knocked her head on something as she fell." Martha sighed. "She was adorable. Nothing like her brother."

The other little boy in the picture, who despite the bright day was scowling darkly at the camera.

"I don't think I ever saw Matt smile."

"He hasn't changed."

"Even when he won the Oscar, I think it was the shortest acceptance speech on record." Rick had to smile. "He didn't even thank his parents."

Martha shrugged. "He was always the same."

"They don't look alike." Even in the old photo there was little resemblance between any members of the Sheldon family.

"Some families don't. I mean, look at you and me."

"I have to say, I'm glad I'm not a redhead." He shuddered as he imagined his brown locks flaming with colour, then looked closer at the photo. "This is more than just hair colour, though."

Martha closed the album with a snap. "Well, that's the past."

"And the man died on your stage." As soon as the words left his mouth Rick wished he could take them back as his mother glared at him, her gaze outdoing the wattage of her hair.

"Richard, don't."

"Don't what?"

"Make this into something it isn't."

"I wasn't –"

"Yes, you are. You're thinking up stories, making it murder. When it isn't."

"Mother, I didn't say it was."

"I know you."

He shifted around so he was facing her and took her hand, his eyes fixed on her face. Without her make-up she looked older, smaller, but still beautiful. No. Younger. He could still see the ingénue, the starlet, her whole career ahead of her, the lines just giving character to a talented, striking woman. "Mother, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." She pulled her hand away and stood up. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed." She tapped to the stairs in her mules, the album firmly under her arm, then paused. "Richard, this was natural causes. Clive died of a heart attack, that's all."

"In your studio."

"He probably just wanted to say hello."

"By breaking in? Mother –"

"No, Richard. Drop it. It's late and I want to go to bed. Goodnight."

She swept up the stairs, making her grand exit and leaving him baffled.

Then as she disappeared something she said tripped back into his mind, and he called out, "Wait a minute. What court case?"


	6. Chapter 6

Martha was up and out early before she could be interrogated more, while Rick surfaced just after 9.30 am, yawning hugely as he strolled to the kitchen to prepare breakfast in bed for Kate. He'd left her asleep, curled up on the edge of the bed, her hair strewn across the pillow, but as he pushed the door open with his backside he realised she was already awake, standing naked by the window, her brunette locks now caught up haphazardly in a scrunchie and showing off her long neck as well as everything else.

"People _can_ see in," Rick cautioned.

She turned and grinned. "Who, exactly?"

"Well, there's this guy in an apartment a couple of blocks over who has high-powered binoculars ..." He put the tray down on the bed.

"And how do you know this?"

"He used to send score cards."

"Score ..." She caught on to what he was saying. "You used to leave the curtains open?"

"I always was an exhibitionist."

"You were younger then." Still, she picked up the second robe and slipped it on.

"Are you saying I'm no longer a fine figure of a man?" He posed for a moment, hands on his hips, gut sucked in as far as he could manage before his vision started to go red around the edges and he had to breathe out.

"You might want to cut down a little on the calories."

"I've never had any complaints."

"Who said I was complaining?" She smiled and sat down, glancing at the tray and what was on the plates. "And you're as bad as your mother."

"To what do I owe that insult?" he asked, joining her on the other side of the bed, half lying down so he could look into her face.

"Neither of you have any idea of what a normal portion of food looks like."

"Just because you eat like a bird."

"I enjoy a Remmy's burger as much as the next person, just not for every meal."

"So I have to cut down on the squirty cream?"

She didn't answer, just gave him a very specific look and picked up a quarter of toast, proceeding to nibble the corner.

He had to grin, memories of that afternoon in front of the fridge playing pleasurably across his mind. Munching a slice himself and brushing crumbs off the sheet, he wondered when he could persuade her to a repeat performance.

"Anyway," she said, delicately wiping a thread of butter off her chin, "where did you get to last night?"

"Last night?"

"I woke up and you weren't here."

"You missed me?" His grin grew wider.

"No." She softened the word with a slight smile. "But your side of the bed was cold."

"I ... uh ... couldn't sleep," he dissembled, not wanting to admit to his bad dream. "I got up to get some warm milk."

"You were gone a while."

"You were timing me?"

"No. I just tried to stay awake until you got back, but I must have drifted off again."

He took a forkful of scrambled eggs. "My mother was up too. We chatted for a while."

"About anything interesting?"

Washing the eggs down with a mouthful of coffee, he nodded. "Just a bit." He told her about the tragedy so many years ago.

"Do you remember Emily?" Kate asked slowly.

"I hadn't thought of her since that time, but ... more, now I've had time to think. I guess she was the closest thing I came to a companion that summer. Her brother was more my age, but he was never the friendliest of kids."

"Were you always lonely?"

Rick shrugged. "No. I was okay, for the most part. I'd go for long walks by myself, finding things on the beach –"

"Dead bodies?"

"No." He laughed quietly. "No housekeeper's sons. And I should probably apologise for that."

"I wouldn't worry. It won't stop me bringing it up occasionally."

"Right." He accepted the inevitable. "Anyway, I'd add to my already extensive interesting stone and shell collection, and bring home whole rafts of seaweed." He grinned as he peered with his mind's eye into the past. "Of course, I dreamed of digging up a doubloon, or finding a gold crown washed ashore, but then you can't have everything. But I was okay making my own entertainment, and that summer in the Hamptons was probably my first taste of freedom."

"Not your last."

"No."

He could still remember how it was: the sand, different colours depending on whether the sea had washed it or not, drifting over his toes as he walked; huge oyster shells from somewhere, peeking out from tangled seaweed like ancient dinosaurs wakened from their slumber; stones with flat bottoms that he finally managed to make skip across the water, even if only be accident; and always the snap of cables against masts, and the cry of seagulls.

"It wasn't really until Edgewick Academy ..." He stopped, pulling himself back. "Anyway, there were other kids to play with if I really wanted, but Emily seemed to like my company."

"She sounds nice."

"She was." He picked up a rasher of bacon and crunched it thoughtfully. "Although it was one of her other comments that was the most interesting."

"Who? Emily?"

"No. My mother. She mentioned there was a court case about the same time."

"About the little girl?"

"No. Just before, I think."

Kate lifted her legs to sit fully on the bed, knees bent and showing an expanse of smooth, lithe thigh. She picked up a plate of eggs, breaking the larger clumps into mouth-sized pieces. "So did you do any research on it?" she asked, tucking in.

He grinned. "No. I thought we could do that together."

She swallowed and pointed her fork at him. "I'm not going to live in your back pocket, Rick. This is only temporary." At the sudden worried expression on his face she went on quickly, "Not the sleeping arrangements. I mean being with each other the rest of the time. Until I decide what I'm going to do."

"You've really given up on being a cop?"

"I think it's given up on me, don't you?"

"Not if you don't want it to."

She ignored his comment. "Did she say anything else?"

"My mother? No. But I think she regretted mentioning anything in the first place. She left me a note on the fridge. Want to know what it said?"

"Don't forget to put on clean underwear?"

"Well, yes, that too. But she also told me not to turn this into a murder."

"Is that what you're doing?"

"Well, we were considering it."

"Were we?"

"Weren't we?" He was confused.

Kate smiled slightly. "You're a writer. You like things ... complicated."

"No, I like things easy. It's life that tends not to co-operate." He put his mug back on the tray. "Kate, we both feel something is wrong."

"And how much of that is boredom?"

"I'm not bored."

"Maybe I am."

His heart contracted. "Are you?"

He saw the realisation hit her. "No. No, Rick, that's not what I meant. Not with you." She reached out and took his hand. "But wouldn't you prefer it to be natural causes? That someone _wasn't_ killed in your mother's acting studio?"

"Of course."

"Then why are you pushing this?"

He stared at her. "You were the one who said you had a bad feeling about it."

"Well, I've slept on it since then."

"So you ... what? Don't think Megan Dalwood is doing a bad job?"

She didn't answer directly, instead saying, "Do you have any idea how many dead bodies drop in New York every day? Sometimes _I_ was swamped, so to be looking for murders where there aren't any could be considered hubris."

He gazed at her, trading eye to eye. "You think we should leave this alone."

"I don't know there's a 'this' to do anything about."

For a long moment he said nothing, watching her and letting her words sink in. Then he nodded slowly. "Okay. You're right. I'm ... It's probably just my curiosity getting the best of me."

"Your mother?"

"Yes." He gave a rueful chuckle. "There's just so much of her life I know nothing about."

"Like who your father was?"

"Exactly."

"I'm sure she doesn't know everything about your life either."

"I hope not." He squeezed her fingers. "Okay. Let's leave it alone."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Well, maybe I might just do a little research."

"To understand your mother better?"

"That too." He reached out with his free hand and ran it up the outside of her thigh.

"You know what curiosity did to the cat, don't you?"

"Said the ex-copper." His fingertip explored the hollow behind her left knee.

"Is that all you think about?"

"Come here and find out."

Then the phone rang.

"Saved by the bell?" She laughed lightly.

"Let it ring."

"It might be important."

"It's not you." He leaned in for a kiss, making the tray dip dangerously close to tipping its contents onto the bed.

She echoed his movement, but only to reach past him to the bedside table, picking up his cell. She glanced at the screen. "It's Alexis."

He groaned but sat up, taking the phone from her. "Even when she's not here she's ..."

"She's your daughter."

He raised an eyebrow at the multiple meanings behind her words, then grinned. "I love you too." Not waiting for her not to answer, he thumbed _answer. _"Hey, sweetheart."

"_Dad? What's going on?"_

"Going on?"

"_Weren't you going to call me?"_

"Call you about what?"

"_Gram? Finding a dead body?"_

"How did –"

"_Dad, everybody's talking about it here. Tyler heard it from Mrs Monroe at the store, who got it from her delivery man who –"_

"I get it. Everybody knows."

"_Everybody except me."_ She sounded hurt.

"I'm not sure there's anything you can do."

"_Come home? Be supportive?"_

"Alexis, your grandmother is fine."

"_But it's Clive Sheldon! Even I knew him. A little,"_ she added, as honest as ever.

He had to smile. "And it was a heart attack. Nothing for you to worry about."

"_Are you sure?"_

"Positive. Alexis, trust me. There's absolutely no reason for you to stop your vacation."

"_Are you sure?"_ she repeated. _"I mean, I can come home –"_

"Is the sun out?"

"_Yes."_

"Is the sea blue?"

"_Yes, but –"_

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

"_Yes, of course, but –"_

"Alexis, stay. There's nothing you can do here because there's nothing happening. Gram is fine, it was natural causes, so there's no need."

"_Will Gram be going to the funeral?"_

"Funeral?"

"_There'll be one, won't there?"_

"I suppose. But I don't know about her going ..."

"_He was a friend – of course she will."_

Rick knew his daughter was right. "Then I'll go with her, but you're staying where you are."

"_But –"_

"Will it help if I get her to call you?"

"_I ... suppose."_

"I know you want to be here for her, but there's no need. Kate and I aren't going anywhere. We'll make sure she's okay."

"_You'll get her to phone me?"_

"As soon as she's back."

"_Well ..."_ Her need to be with her family warred with other more pleasurable pursuits. _"JD has asked us onto his dad's yacht ..."_

"JD?"

"_Just a friend,"_ she said quickly, and Rick wondered if her nose was wrinkling, her one sure tell that she was being economical with the truth.

He had to smile. "Alexis, go. If I know you're having fun I can just about put up with you not being here."

"_I miss you too, Dad."_

"I'll talk to you soon."

"_I'll send you photos."_

"You'd better. 'Bye, honey."

"_Bye, Dad."_

Rick chuckled as he hung up.

"What is it?" Kate asked.

"I think I know the real reason Alexis wanted to go to the Hamptons."

"Oh?"

"JD."

"Would that be a boy?" Kate smiled.

"John Danton Farnsworth the Third."

"The third, huh? He sounds interesting." She rested on her elbow to look at him.

"She met him when she was looking for a dress for Ryan's wedding. Him and his grandfather."

"Farnsworth the first."

"Mmn." He scooted up the bed so he was lying next to her. "He's at Columbia, too."

"Ah."

"That's what I thought you'd say."

She smiled and took his hand. "Rick, she's incredibly sensible. I don't think you need to worry about being a grandfather just yet."

"Grand ..." His cell rang again, and being slightly distracted he thumbed _answer_ just a moment before he realised whose face was gracing the screen. His heart sank.

"_You're late."_

"Usually am," he agreed. "And how are you today, Gina?"

Kate looked at him questioningly, but he shook his head.

"_Waiting for the next chapter."_ His ex-wife and publisher's annoyance came over clearly.

He couldn't help it. He smiled smugly and hoped sounded in his voice just as clearly. "Have you checked your inbox?"

"_Not in the last five minutes, no."_

"Then I suggest you do, and have a word with your network administrator. It's been hanging around the ether for ages." All of twenty minutes, he thought but didn't say, having realised he hadn't actually sent it while he was waiting for the toast to brown. It nearly burned as he attached the document to an email.

"_What?"_ There was a pause as she obviously did just that. _"Oh. Good."_ She mustered her power. _"The last one's due in a fortnight."_

"You'll get it."

"_I won't be holding my breath."_

Rick didn't sigh. He was very careful not to sigh, not to show any signs of frustration. It might have been over a year ago, but their second break-up hadn't improved her temper, at least when it came to him. He'd give anything to be friends, but just friends, and Gina didn't seem to be able to do that. It was lovers or enemies, as far as she was concerned.

"Gina, I promise you will have the final chapter in your hot little hand before you have time to use somebody else's credit card." Oops, maybe not that friendly.

"_If you can tear yourself away from your muse."_ The words were oddly regretful, but there was an overlay of spite too.

"Kate and I have an understanding."

"_Not what I've heard."_

Kate got up, her coffee mug in her hand, and indicated she was going to shower. He nodded, mouthing _sorry_. She smiled and waved her hand, sashaying out of the room.

He watched her go, but said, "Gina, can we not do this? You obviously know I'm seeing Kate, although how I've no idea, and you also know what that entails. But I don't want to fight about it."

"_Fine."_ There was a half-pause, then she repeated, much softer, _"Fine. I hope you're very happy."_

"Actually, we are."

"_Then I'm happy for you. As long as it doesn't stop you writing."_

"It won't."

"_Well, good."_

"Thanks, Gina."

"_Yes."_ There was another slight pause._ "How's Martha?"_

"My mother?"

"_Mmn. I heard she found a body."_

"What? How?"

"_It's in the Ledger. Page 2, right under an article about the budget deficit."_

He pulled the newspaper out from under the breakfast tray, quickly turning to the relevant page. "At least it's not front page," he commented, perusing the brief item and reassured when he realised it had little more information than Alexis's friend had got from the local store owner.

"_Is she okay?"_

Rick was surprised. Gina and Martha had what could only be described as a prickly relationship, as ex-daughter and mother-in-law were likely to have, so the former asking after the latter was unusual. "She's fine. You know my mother – she takes most things in her stride."

"_It must be the experience of having you for a son."_ This time there was actually humour in her tone. _"You know, Clive Sheldon was a client of Black Pawn."_

This time the surprise was even greater. "He was a writer?"

"_His memoires."_

"What did he have to write about?"

"_A tell-it-all exposé of the import/export business."_

"It sounds riveting."

"_I wouldn't know. We never got the manuscript."_

"You didn't demand chapters every five minutes?"

"_I wasn't his editor."_

Rick was about to ask more, then his conversation with Kate came back to him ... _wouldn't you prefer it to be natural causes ... that someone wasn't killed_ ... and he changed his mind. "I'll let my mother know you were asking after her."

"_You do that. And I'll be talking to the legal department about claiming the advance back if you don't get the last chapter to me on time."_

He smiled. Life, it seemed, was back to normal. "Gina, you have my word."

"_Right."_ She hung up on him.

Rick stared at the screen and shook his head. There was a time he had thought they might actually have a chance to be together forever, but that had been stifled before they'd even reached their first anniversary. Maybe they had too little in common, or too much ... whatever it was the final split had been painful and undignified. At least their more recent parting hadn't involved lawyers.

He swung his legs around and stood up. Thrusting the phone into his robe pocket he smiled ruefully. Whatever the reason, that was the past, and his future might just be in the shower. He glanced down at the tray and the half-finished breakfast congealing rapidly. Ah well. Time to clean up.

* * *

Kate walked into the living area, rubbing her wet hair with a towel, dressed in a pair of grey leggings and an over-sized NYPD t-shirt. Rick was in the kitchen, whistling softly to himself as he started the washing up. She knew he had a dishwasher, but over the past few days she'd come to realise he'd listened to Alexis' occasional lectures on saving the planet, and understood it used less water and electricity to do the breakfast plates by hand.

In fact, he seemed to enjoy it, something in his psyche enjoying the tactile aspect as much as making sure the glasses and hardware sparkled. What he wasn't so happy to do was the drying, so she dropped her towel on the counter, exchanging it for a tea towel.

"Hey," he said, smiling at her.

"Hey." She picked up a knife from the drainer. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Everything's fine. Gina was just being her normal self."

"And Alexis? You told her it was a heart attack."

He shrugged. "Maybe I've thought about it again. You're right. No point in looking for trouble."

She polished the knife to a shine before dropping it into the drawer. "Good."

"You persuaded me." He handed her a plate.

"I always knew I would finally be a good influence on you."

"In the nick of time, too."

"And just so you know, there'll be no water fight."

"Spoilsport." He removed his hand from under the tap, his expression that of a little boy caught doing something he shouldn't.

"And the sooner we're done, the sooner we can do something more interesting."

"Such as?"

She didn't answer, just opening the cupboard and sliding the plate home.

He grinned and attacked the remaining pots with gusto.

It didn't take much to make him happy, she recognised. A bit like a huge dog, really – maybe an enormous Wolfhound or Great Dane – just the promise of a game with his favourite toy was enough to get his tail wagging. Although perhaps that was a metaphor too close to the truth.

How he was going to feel when the other boot dropped she wasn't so sure. Her instincts were still shouting that there was something wrong with Clive Sheldon's death, and as she helped him tidy the kitchen she couldn't help the feeling that it wasn't over yet.


	7. Chapter 7

Ryan called as Kate and Rick sat on two folding lawn chairs in the small roof garden above the loft, taking in the last of the day's sun with a glass of wine each and listening to the song of the city around them.

"_I can't talk for long,"_ Ryan said. _"Gates is in a bad mood."_

"Anything specific this time?"

"_No. Just generally."_ He paused, probably looking around to make sure he wasn't being overheard. _"My pal in the 14__th__ just contacted me. They've closed the case on Sheldon – natural causes."_

"How natural?"

"_Apparently the guy was living on borrowed time. He was under some doctor for heart trouble, and he could have had an attack anywhere, any time. It was just bad luck he happened to die in Mrs R's theatre. Oh, and Javi spoke to Lanie and the body's already been claimed and cremated."_

Kate looked at her watch then wondered why. "Already?"

"_The grieving widow didn't want to hang around. Apparently the memorial service is tomorrow."_

"That's quick." Kate waved her hand at Rick, indicating she'd tell him in a second. He sat back, looking more than a little exasperated.

"_According to Andy in the 14__th__ Mrs Sheldon had everything planned before the ink was dry on the death certificate. The funeral director was on speed dial."_

"Indecent, if nothing else."

"_You want me to poke about some more?"_ Ryan asked, the tone of his voice changing, suggesting he was cupping the mouthpiece of the phone.

Kate took a moment then shook her head. "No. Thanks, Kevin."

"_No problem. Oh, and Jenny says you and Castle are coming to dinner next week. No excuses."_

She laughed. "I wasn't going to make any."

"_Right. I gotta go,"_ he added quickly, and just before the phone went dead Kate heard Captain Gates' voice asking Ryan whether he had finally finished the paperwork on the Dominguez case.

"Well?" Rick asked, his wine all but forgotten.

"Natural causes," Kate said, picking up her own glass and taking a sip. "A walking cardiac timebomb, according to Ryan."

Rick huffed, then stared at the concrete and metal planters that ringed the roof. Eduardo did a great job keeping the contents watered, dead-heading as a sort of therapy, and there was enough flowers showing to allow the perfume to almost overcome the natural odour of the city. Still, it wasn't really the plants he saw. "Do you believe that?"

"It's official. Case closed."

"Kate –"

"We talked about this, remember? Not looking for murder?"

He gazed at her, and if his blue eyes were windows on the soul then there were clouds gathering. Still, he finally shrugged. "Case closed." He exhaled heavily. "My mother will be pleased."

"Even if you're not?"

He had to smile. "Believe it or not, I didn't just follow you around waiting for you to notice me. I actually enjoyed it. Doing something good with my life for a change."

"You don't think entertaining people is something good?"

"When I have critics calling my best work nothing but airport fodder, I don't think I'm going to get big-headed about it."

"Don't worry. I won't let you."

"Oh, good. You can join my mother in keeping me grounded." The insincerity in his voice was palpable. "Okay, look, I miss it. Coming to work every day. The chase. The capture. I might not have had a badge, but I like to think I helped."

"You did. And I know you miss it. So do I. But that's no excuse for hoping Clive Sheldon didn't die a natural death."

"I guess." He stood up and wandered to the parapet, looking out over the city. "Did Ryan say why Sheldon was in my mother's studio?"

"No," Kate admitted. "But that's not what being a homicide detective is about."

He turned, his head slightly tilted. "It is with you. Not just the who, but the why."

"It doesn't change the outcome. Not in this case." She got to her feet and joined him. "We ... or they ... may never know why Sheldon jimmied the window open and climbed inside. Why he was wearing make-up and a wig. All that's important to the cops is that nobody shot him, knifed him or poisoned him."

"And to us? What's important to us?"

She put her hand on his shoulder. "That your mother isn't going to get the heebie-jeebies every time she steps onto the stage."

He couldn't help the bark of laughter. "Heebie-jeebies?"

She ignored him. "Besides, you know how superstitious actors are."

He shuddered. "God, you don't have to tell me. Do you have any idea the rigmarole she puts herself through every opening night? Just because she's always done it, and if she doesn't get it just right then the show's going to be a flop."

Kate smiled. "Be happy for her."

He took a deep breath and looked down into her clear hazel-green eyes. "Okay. I'll try. Although it isn't over yet."

"It's not?"

"Of course not. There's the funeral first." He sighed dramatically, then winced when she pinched him.

* * *

"You didn't have to come," Martha said, smoothing her black dress down over her hips from where it had ridden up slightly in the car.

Rick had been right. If not pleasure, Martha had taken the news that Clive Sheldon died of nothing more than a heart attack with relief, immediately going up to her wardrobe to see if she had something suitable for the service, and not making use of Rick's credit card simply because most of the decent shops had already closed for the night.

She put a lot of effort into getting ready, changing her jewellery half a dozen times before she was even halfway happy, but when she stepped from the limousine her black-gloved hand held onto his tightly.

"You needed someone." Rick smiled encouragingly. "I wouldn't be a good son if I wasn't here to support you."

"And in all honesty, I'm glad you are." There were still cracks showing in the Martha Rodgers facade, but even as he watched they closed up. "How do I look?"

"Lovely."

She swatted him on the bicep with her purse. "That wasn't the impression I was going for."

"So what was?"

"Suitably grief-stricken."

"You need the black-edged hankie to complete the outfit, then."

Martha couldn't help herself – she had to smile. "I think that would be a step too far."

"Me too."

They started up the gravel path towards the small crowd on the top of the slight incline some hundred yards away.

"You know," Martha said quietly and nodding to the right where a large ash tree spread a deep shadow over the close-cropped turf, "Chet's buried over there."

"I remember."

"Funny how it's all linked," she went on thoughtfully. "Chet leaving me that money ... if he hadn't Clive would never have died on my stage."

"From what Kate said, it would still have happened. Somewhere else for sure, but Chet not being generous in his bequest wouldn't have stopped Clive Sheldon from dying." He took her hand and wrapped it under his arm. "And no thinking about the past. Chet loved you."

"I know, but –"

"No buts. Come on." He squeezed her fingers. "_Once more unto the breach, dear friends_ ..."

"I don't think you want to carry on with that quote, however creepily appropriate."

"Probably not." He smiled at her again, and was reassured when she responded in kind.

The gravel path widened out, and the dark mass ahead became separate people.

"There's one or two here look like they've escaped the grave themselves," Martha murmured.

Rick couldn't help but agree.

If he'd been free-writing he'd have typed something like ... _the collective noun for crows is a murder, but that was perhaps too close to the truth. Black, feathered, with sunglasses covering eyes that had been around too long and seen too much, the only splash of colour were the blood red roses and scarlet gardenias surrounding the entrance to the mausoleum ... _and then he would have laughed and deleted the entire paragraph.

The truth was far more ordinary. He recognised less than half of the people clustered around the small crypt, wealthy couples consisting of older men with younger trophies on their arms, their ex-wives standing together, aloof and diamond hard. There were what looked like a couple of reporters, one from the NY Ledger who he knew vaguely and acknowledged with a dip of the head, while their photographers took snaps of the mourners, but that left the rest as strangers, most likely business associates with the odd gawker thrown in.

He glanced down at his mother. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked, keeping his voice equally quiet.

Martha tweaked her own sunglasses and pushed a lock of her red hair into place. "I found his body, Richard. I didn't kill him."

"From the look Grace Sheldon is giving us, I'm not sure they know that."

It was true. The ultra-slim blonde standing next to the priest may well have been in her mid-sixties, but from this distance she could have passed for fifteen years younger, her hair colour owing more to a stylist's skills than nature, and her body to a strict diet and exercise regime. From her very expensive Dior black dress to the double string of graduated pearls sitting exactly where her neck met her shoulders, she was the epitome of the grieving widow, everything Martha wasn't, although from the expression on her face murder may well have been on her mind as well.

"Mmn. Better not wait then." Martha stepped towards and held out her hands. "Grace, darling."

The priest moved away to give them some privacy.

"Martha." The temperature dropped at least ten degrees. "You shouldn't have come."

Martha lowered her arms. "I had to. To say goodbye."

Grace raised an immaculate eyebrow. "Really."

Rick could read sub-text better than the next person. "Mrs Sheldon," he said, taking his place at his mother's side and ready to defend her. "Grace. I'm sorry for your loss."

She ignored him, speaking only to Martha. "I know all about you." She may have kept her voice low, but the venom in it was more than clear. "You can stay, for now, but as soon as this is over I don't want to see you ever again."

Martha looked confused. "Grace, I have no idea what you're talking about, and I'm not sure you do either. It's the grief. It can do odd things to people –"

"Don't pretend. It doesn't become you."

A man, about Rick's age and size but with his shoulder length mousy hair tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, approached. "Mother? Is there a problem?"

She didn't look at him, just said, "No. No problem."

Rick held out his hand. "Matt."

"Castle." Matthew Sheldon didn't take it and Rick let it drop after only a moment. "I'm surprised to see you here."

_And I'm pretty surprised to see you_, Rick thought but didn't say. "Paying my respects."

"Yes. It's a good turn out. A lot of people liked my father."

_I didn't think you were included._ "I'm sure they did."

Matt gave a ghost of a smile, barely twitching, and turned to his mother. "Father Donergan is ready to begin."

"Yes. Of course." Grace's glare rested for a moment longer on Martha, then she turned on her high heel and stalked away, her son making an awkward half-run to keep up.

"Mother?" Rick whispered. "What was all that about?"

For a long moment Martha didn't speak, then she shook her head slowly. "She's upset, Richard. People say all sorts of things when they're upset."

"She didn't look upset to me. That was a lot more personal."

She shot him a glare. "Richard, don't. She's just being ... Grace."

Something she'd said before all this started came back to him. "Didn't you have an argument with her, with Grace? Just before you came home from the Hamptons?"

Martha's brows drew down in thought, then her face cleared. "Of course. That must be it."

"What was it about?"

"Something and nothing. I don't even know what caused it, but sometimes it's like that. Grace must still be thinking about it."

He was feeling torn. He knew his mother, but for once honestly he wasn't sure if she understood the real reason for Grace Sheldon's antagonism or was just grasping at this explanation like a buoy to a drowning man. "You must have some idea why –"

"Later, Richard. The service is about to start." She nodded towards where everyone was beginning to sit down on the raft of folding chairs facing the mausoleum and the small wrought iron table bearing a tastefully ostentatious urn.

"This is just putting off the inevitable conversation, not stopping it," Rick pointed out.

"Fine, fine," Martha said, waving her hand as if she could make it all go away. "Now, are you coming or not?"

He gazed at her, trying to see past the facade to the real person beneath, then held out his arm. "Yes, Mother."

Father Donergan cleared his throat and stepped in front of the open doorway to the crypt, soon to be the last resting place of the dearly departed Clive Sheldon.

* * *

Martha had declared her intention to go home and change out of her black, probably to put on something brightly coloured or animal printed, or possibly both, and Rick asked to be dropped off midtown.

"Give Kate my love," Martha called as the limo pulled away from the sidewalk.

"No problem."

Kate was sitting outside the cafe under the trees, a half empty cup of tea on the table in front of her. She had her face to the sun, watching life go by, and looked up as he approached. He wondered what she saw. He was still in his black suit, even if he'd tugged off the dark navy tie and thrust it into his pocket, and it occurred to him it might have made her think of Montgomery's funeral when a bad day had turned so much worse. Then she smiled.

He slipped off his sunglasses and sat down next to her. "Hi."

"Hi. How did it go?"

He shrugged. "It was a funeral."

"Nobody threw themselves into the grave, ripping their bodices and prostrate with grief?"

"Bodices?" Rick asked, grinning. "Are you channelling Jane Austen or something?"

She kicked him lightly under the table.

The waitress, probably all of eighteen with very short curly blonde hair, smiled automatically at them both as she approached. "Can I get you folks something?"

"Kate?" Rick asked.

"I'll take another tea."

Rick looked up at the waitress. "And I'll have a double espresso with a shot of cream."

"Yes sir. Anything to eat?"

Kate shook her head and Rick said, "No, that'll be fine for now."

"Be right back."

"Where's Martha?" Kate asked as the waitress disappeared back inside.

"Sloughing off her protective colouring."

"Is she okay?"

"Not sure."

Her eyes narrowed a little. "Did she say something?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Care to expand on that?"

Rick told her about the confrontation. "I tried to get her to talk in the car, but she shut me down."

"Maybe she really isn't sure herself."

"Then why do I still feel like she's not telling us everything?"

"Because she isn't." Kate shook her head. "She's Martha Rodgers."

Rick opened his mouth to comment, then shrugged in agreement.

His attention was caught by a motorbike chugging noisily past, surprisingly sedately, until Rick realised the woman on the back, in little more than t-shirt, shorts and a skidlid, was heavily pregnant, and having to hold onto the rollbar behind her because she wouldn't have been able to get her arms around the male driver.

"If she comes off ..." he muttered.

"Were you always like this?" Kate asked, her mouth twitching with amusement.

"No," he admitted, giving a rueful smile. "Only really since Alexis was old enough to fall off her first toy pony."

Kate's own smile was slow and sweet. "It's nice."

"Just don't tell anyone. It wouldn't do my reputation any good."

"Your secret is safe with me," she promised.

The waitress brought their order and put it down onto the sunlight dappled table. "Is there anything else?" she asked, reaching into the large pocket on her apron for her order pad.

"No, that's fine, Daisy," Rick said, smiling.

"Well, if you need something just let me know." She hurried off to tend to another table.

"You know her?" Kate asked, sitting back and enjoying the breeze.

"No. Why?"

"Daisy?"

"Oh. Her name badge."

"So I'm not the only one who's observant."

"Habit," Rick expanded. "I've always found that if you're polite to staff you get better service."

"Are you a good tipper?"

"It's only money."

"Says the man with a freehold on the moon."

He laughed. "Guilty."

"So are you planning to leave the city and take up lunar residency?" Kate asked, stirring her tea to make it cool enough to drink.

"Funnily enough, I don't have quite enough ready cash to buy the necessary rocket to get there. Maybe after the next couple of books."

"You don't like living in New York?" she gently teased.

He laughed, deep in his chest. "I love it. The sights, the smells, the people, often all at the same time, especially on the subway. They all have stories, and if they don't I make them up." He nodded towards another table. "Over there, for instance."

Kate half-turned so she could see. "That pair?"

"Mmn."

Two young women were chatting animatedly over tall iced teas, fully made-up even at this time of day with their hair straightened, dyed and highlighted, sunbed tans aglow. A baby buggy sat between them, the little girl passenger happily sucking on the ear of her toy bunny and kicking her heels.

"So what un-PC conclusions did you jump to?" Kate asked, keeping her voice down.

"I'd love to say I thought they went to Vasser and had degrees in mechanical engineering and aeronautics, but the troglodyte in me says they've barely read a book in their lives, and spend their time in uptown bars looking for recently divorced older men to form short-term relationships with."

"Wow." Kate shook her head. "I think maybe you've had enough caffeine."

"No. Just experience."

Kate filed away the question that rose to the top of her mind about whether it was _personal_ experience to ask at a later date. "And what do you think they'd say about us?"

"That nice couple? He's obviously successful in a creative field and is deeply in love with the woman, who is currently on a Sabbatical from a high profile, professional post."

"Nice alliteration."

"Thanks."

"And how does _she_ feel?" Kate's eyes twinkled in the sunlight.

"You tell me."

"You're the one with the stories."

"Maybe I don't want to make this part up." Suddenly it felt like he wasn't playing anymore.

She sat back and looked at him, that smile playing across her lips again. "You know how I feel."

"You don't say it."

"You want me to?"

"God, yes."

"I love you."

His mouth dropped open a little. "You do?"

"I thought I made it plain that first night. And every night in between."

"It's just nice to hear the words." He took a quick gulp of coffee, burning his tongue and blaming that for the hard blinking he was doing.

"If I don't say it enough, I'm sorry." She reached forward, touched his hand. "I love you."

"Marry me." As soon as the words left his scalded mouth he wanted to drag them back, afraid of what she might do.

Instead of jumping to her feet and running away she surprised him and just said, "No."

"Why not?"

"It's too soon."

"You love me. I love you. How can it be too soon?"

"Because you've got two failed marriages behind you already, and I'm sure you thought you loved Meredith and Gina when you proposed."

"You told me the third time might be the charm."

At Ryan's wedding. She remembered. "I'm not going anywhere, Rick. We have all the time in the world to decide if that might ... and I mean _might_ ... be the right thing to do."

"So you're not saying _no_ forever."

"Nothing's forever."

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure how to take that."

She picked up her tea and blew on it, the shape of her lips making his heart palpitate. "However you like, Castle." She sipped carefully.

Feeling like he'd just skirted oblivion, Rick went back to a previous subject. "You know, I thought about moving once, after Meredith left. I considered leaving the city, taking Alexis somewhere she could run around safely."

"Why didn't you?"

"I'm not sure."

"Lack of available women?"

"I think you'd have to make it to the South Pole for that. But it was more ... prosaic than that."

"Explain."

"There was this house, in a small town in Connecticut. I thought it would be perfect. Colonial style, huge back yard, a great school within walking distance ..."

"What happened?"

"A murder." He shrugged. "A street away. A home invasion, and a whole family wiped out." He stared into the past. "I realised just because the roads are cleaner doesn't mean violence can't follow you. I decided we were better off staying here. A secure building, a doorman, and doing what I do I could take Alexis to school, the playground, make sure she was safe." He dragged himself back. "Besides, with that many bedrooms I was afraid my mother might come to stay permanently."

"That happened anyway," Kate pointed out.

"The more things change, the more they stay the same." He shook his head and grinned widely. "I doubt I'll ever get this city out of my blood."

"Me neither. Of all the places I've been, only New York seems like home."

"I know how you feel."

Kate sat up straighter. "Come on. I need to pick up a few more things at my place. You can keep me company."

"Why not just bring everything?"

She studied him, his blue eyes and mobile mouth, his hair falling over his forehead, and she wondered idly what he'd look like if she could persuade him to grow it longer. "Not yet. I'm not _that_ ready to give up my independence."

"I'm not asking you to. But paying rent on somewhere you only visit ..."

"I'll think about it." She stood up. "Are you finished?"

"Looks like I am." He dropped a couple of bills onto the table, including a very large tip in his suddenly optimistic mood. "Lead on."

Kate smiled and walked towards where a line of cabs was waiting, going first as always.

* * *

Martha put the phone down and stared out of her office window, smiling. That was it, the last cast member calling to take up the part of Dr Chasuble.

_The Importance of Being Earnest._ Oscar Wilde at his most approachable, his wittiest, and best of all with a happy ending. Maybe that was why she finally chose it for her summer show, because she needed that happiness to look forward to. Although the part of Martha Rodgers who was scrupulously honest was sitting at the back of her mind telling herself it was some other reason entirely.

She tried to ignore it by turning back to her desk and ticking off Jeremy Quayle's name. He was going to make an excellent Dr Chasuble, and was more than willing to come out of semi-retirement as a favour to her. Not that any actor truly retired. She knew one, in her eighties, who gave up the profession on a regular basis, only to be tempted back at least twice a year to play weird grannies and ancient spinsters with something nasty locked in the attic.

The costumes would be no problem. Virtually all of the men had something suitable, and from her limited wardrobe supply Martha knew she could outfit most of the women, meaning she only had to paddle in her limited finances rather than dive in more deeply.

Only Regina Colby had insisted on formal remuneration, and that was merely at scale and so her agent didn't have a seizure. Martha had arranged a share of any profits for everyone else, and they were grateful for it, not least because they were all out of work, and in some cases had been for quite a while. She knew, as did everyone in their occupation, that ninety percent of all actors were 'resting' at any one time, so considering the same faces turned up in films and on TV over the course of a year an awful lot of talented people were waiting tables or living on their savings.

Besides, being an actor was in the blood, bone and sinew, and any job was better than no job at all.

Another tick went in next to the props box. She'd already decided this would be a minimalist production, as the words were the most important part of any Wilde play, so that made things a lot easier – she'd already mentally earmarked a number of items in the apartment that could be pressed into service, and as it was her studio at least there was no rent to pay.

Now she only had to wait for her potential students to confirm they were willing to work their vacation time backstage. She'd impressed on those she'd asked that as it was a professional production, they would be getting an insider's view on how it worked, and if she somehow gave the impression that it would make her look favourably on their applications for the following semester, well, that wasn't her fault. She was sure they would all say yes.

_Not like that autumn_, the scrupulously honest Martha said. _Not professional then._

The real life Martha sighed heavily and put the pen down. Not really any point in lying if it was only to herself. Of course she knew it wasn't just because this was a wonderful play. As soon as she'd realised it was Clive Sheldon lying dead the title had been in her mind, and try as she might she couldn't get it out.

So long ago it felt like another lifetime.

"_... the truth is rarely pure, and never simple ..." _Damn, but Oscar knew what he was talking about when he wrote those lines.

She shook her head to try and clear the past from it. This wasn't getting the work done. Standing up, her bracelets jangling, she left the brightness of her office and started downstairs to the small theatre. She needed to stand on the stage, see it in her mind's eye ... and dispel any ghosts.

Heading for the lighting board she was already considering the effect she wanted to create, that of a summer afternoon in the country, all softness and warmth. Of course, it would be easier if the play were actually being performed outside, but even in New York the weather couldn't be relied upon to behave. Still, that might be an idea for promotion. Five minute excerpts, done in costume at various places around the city, like Grand Central Station, outside the Googenheim, in Central Park – guerrilla marketing of a sort.

Leaving the door to the stage open she warmed to her theme, planning how the flyers would look as she stepped into the inky darkness.

Something scuffled behind her. She jumped, mindful of Rick's recommendation to get someone in to deal with the rats, turning on her heel and peering into the shadows. Nothing moved, no sound, not even the telltale pattering of tiny feet heading towards a warm and welcoming nest.

"Is anyone there?" she called.

Nobody replied, live or dead.

Martha released the breath she'd been holding, and gave a small relieved laugh. Really, her imagination was as bad as Rick's sometimes, populating the gloom with phantoms and spectres. Clearing her throat she hurried towards the light switches.

She was reaching out, almost in touching distance, when something shoved her hard in the middle of her back, knocking her off balance so that she fell forwards and her head hit the corner of the console, knocking her to the ground. She barely had time to hear running, _human_ feet before the darkness around her deepened and she descended into nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

"Not those." Rick stood in the doorway to Kate's bedroom, as yet not actually invited inside.

"What?" Kate turned to look at him, her favourite boots in her hand. "Why not?"

"You almost killed me in those things."

"When?"

"The basement. The tiger. Remember?"

"I took them off before I climbed up you. Remember?" she asked in turn.

He ignored her comment. "Anyway, you don't need them."

"I like them." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Or is it that you don't like me being taller than you?"

"Not quite. And no." He tossed the magazine he'd been flipping through onto the bed. "That's not it at all. It's just ..." He didn't quite know how to end the sentence and chose the wrong one. "They're the ones you run after bad guys in. Cop shoes."

"Cop shoes?"

"Something like that."

"They're just boots, Castle."

"Fine. Bring them. Whatever." He huffed and turned away, muttering.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No. What did you say?"

"I said I wish the tiger had eaten them."

She had to smile. "Why don't you just sit down? I won't be long."

He waved his hand over his shoulder and went to do exactly that. "You might as well move in with me. There'll come a point when you've got so much stuff at my place you'll have done it without realising."

"We're still in the honeymoon phase at the moment," she called, eyes narrowed as she checked what was hanging in the closet. "Who knows, give it a month and we might hate each other."

"I doubt that." He took his notebook from his pocket, just letting his brain work in the background and his pen making random observations.

"Getting more background for Nikki Heat?"

Rick looked up guiltily. Kate was peering around the corner. "Uh ... no."

"Then what are you writing?"

"Ideas." He shrugged and thrust both book and pen back into his pocket. "Nothings."

"Well, I'm sure your nothings will end up somewhere in print." She disappeared again.

"Maybe in our joint collaboration."

"What?"

He raised his voice. "We talked about it, remember? You thought you might like to try writing. And I have the perfect title." He mimed the words with his hands as if they were on a marquee. "_A Piteousness of Doves._"

"Not bad." It sounded like she was pulling drawers out.

"I considered using collective nouns for a series of books once. There are some great ones." He tried to remember them. "There was ... a Deceit of Lapwings. A Wake of Buzzards. And since we were talking tigers, a group of them is called an ambush."

"Appropriate."

"And one of my personal favourites, a Rhumba of Rattlesnakes."

"And that last one would be about a ballroom dancer?" Kate asked, the sound of the wardrobe doors closing punctuating her words.

"Pro-celebrity murder." He laughed. "We've even had one of those."

"Then you can write from experience."

"True." He stood up to wander the room, picking things up and putting them back, unable to stop himself. "A Sneak of Weasels – that's another of my favourites. A Knot of Toads. A Skulk of Foxes."

She came in behind him, her arms full of clothes. "You memorised all of those?"

"It was raining."

"And who would your protagonist have been?"

He shrugged. "I was toying with the idea of a writer detective."

"I don't see you as J B Fletcher. Although maybe in a tweed skirt ..."

"You should see me in tights."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Fine. You don't know what you're missing." He picked up the holdall and held it open.

"I've got a good idea." She thrust the clothes inside, tucking in an errant black bra strap.

"So is that it? I'm only asking because if you put much more in here my arms are going to end up a couple of inches longer."

"Oh, give it here." She made to grab the bag but he whisked it out of her reach.

"No, no. I'll carry it. I'm the man, after all. I might need a massage when we get home, though."

"_Home_." For a moment she paused.

He sighed. "Kate, I can't watch every word I say just in case it's wrong."

She smiled quickly. "Don't worry. I wouldn't want you to break the habit of a lifetime."

"Sarcasm now?"

"And I won't be breaking _that_ habit either."

He grinned. "Good." The look on his face became more mischievous. "You know, we haven't christened your apartment yet."

Kate ran her tongue across her bottom lip. "No. No, I suppose we haven't."

"It's not like we don't have time," he went on, taking half a pace closer. "We don't have to be anywhere. We could just –" His cell phone rang. "Hold that thought," he added, pulling it from his pocket and intending to refuse the call. Then he saw who it was and grunted a laugh. "My mother," he said, showing her the screen. "Her timing is, as always, impeccable."

"Take it," Kate advised. "She'll only wonder what you're up to otherwise."

He waggled his eyebrows at her, making her laugh, and thumbed _answer._ "Mother. To what do I owe this interruption?"

"_Mr Castle?"_ It was a voice he didn't recognise, female, faintly accented.

Glancing at Kate, his forehead furrowed, he said, "Yes. I'm Richard Castle. Who is this and why do yoy have my mother's phone?"

"_My name is Maria Alvarez and I work at Mercy Hospital. Can I confirm your mother's full name and date of birth?"_

"Mercy Hospital?" Ice water began trickling down his spine and he dropped the holdall from suddenly nerveless fingers. A can of deodorant rolled from it across the wooden floor and came to rest under the table, but neither Rick nor Kate took any notice of it. "What happened?"

"_If you could just confirm your mother's name and date of birth."_

He swallowed around a dry tongue. "Martha Rodgers. Martha Mary Rodgers." He gave her birthday, then repeated, "What's happened?"

Kate moved closer, concern radiating from her, and he switched the phone to his other ear so she could hear.

"_Thank you. There's been an accident and your mother was brought in to us a short while ago."_

The ice reached his heart and froze into a tight, cold band around it. "Is she all right?"

"_She's been admitted but that's all I can tell you over the phone. Can you –"_

He didn't let her finish. "I'm on my way." He was running for the stairs even before he cut her off.

Kate took a moment to lock up, ignoring the holdall on the floor, but she reached him at the kerbside before he managed to hail a cab.

"I need to hire a car," he muttered to himself. "This is crazy." He signalled again but the taxi must have been in use.

"She's okay," Kate assured him. "If she wasn't they'd have said."

"Then why didn't they tell me?" He turned on her, his anger fuelled by worry. "All they had to say was that she was all right."

She didn't take offence. "Because they don't. Hospital policy." A yellow blur caught the corner of her eye and she raised her hand. "But I'm sure she's fine."

Rick took a deep breath, trying to regain some form of self control as the cab did a U-turn to stop in front of them. "Right," he ground out. "Right."

* * *

The journey was tense, particularly when they hit traffic due to road works, but finally what felt like a lifetime passed and they were at the hospital entrance. Rick jumped out and sprinted inside, leaving Kate to pay. Not that she minded, not at a time like this – she understood the blinding need to know.

He was at the reception desk as she strode inside, almost vibrating with apprehension.

"Someone's coming to talk to me," he said shortly.

She put her hand on his arm, then was surprised to be pulled into a tight hug. She chided herself and held him close, realising he needed physical contact at a time like this, like any human being.

"Rick."

He let go and turned to the source of the voice. "Dr Siddig."

The man in front of them wore the traditional white coat, a stethoscope pushed into one pocket, but if it wasn't for the costume Kate would never have put him in the medical profession. He was tall, beating Rick by at least five inches, but lanky, bordering on the skinny, as if he'd grown up through his body instead of with it. There was a slight olive cast to his skin, which suggested something exotic in his family tree, and still had a full head of hair, despite being probably somewhere in his sixties. Something about him made her think of hippies and free love – maybe it was the pony-tail. Now he smiled slightly. "Didn't we decide you were going to call me George? You're not twelve anymore. And your mother's fine."

Kate watched Rick's rigid posture soften, the lines on his face smoothing out, and felt herself relax.

"Then why's she here?"

"Martha has a slight concussion and a broken wrist. I've recommended she stay under observation tonight, but I don't doubt she'll be home tomorrow."

Rick exhaled, the last of his tension almost visible as a red mist as it left him. "Thank you, Dr ... George. I was ... you know."

The doctor nodded. "I know."

"So what happened?" Kate asked. "Did she fall?"

Dr Siddig glanced at Rick, who belatedly realised he hadn't done any introduction. "This is Kate Beckett. My ..." There was a split second when Rick couldn't decide what to call her. "My girlfriend."

"Kate. Nice to meet you."

They shook hands, and she noted a strong grip and manicured fingernails with a faint sheen of nicotine.

"And you."

The doctor turned back to Rick. "As to what happened, as I understand it she surprised a burglar in her school."

"She what now?" Rick was confused.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Dr Siddig smiled again and led the way up to the second floor.

"Wait a minute," Rick murmured to Kate as they approached the room. "Isn't that ..."

"Ryan."

The Irish cop looked up from his notebook. "Hey."

"What are you doing here?" Kate asked as Dr Siddig continued into the room with Rick.

"A buddy of mine took the call, and when he realised who Mrs R is he contacted me." Ryan nodded towards the elevator. "He just finished taking her statement, but I said I'd wait for you."

"So what happened?"

* * *

Inside the tidy white room Rick was sitting on the bed hugging his mother carefully.

"Oh, darling," she said. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Don't be so dramatic," he responded, but it was with a smile as he let go so he could assess the damage. "What on earth have you been doing to yourself?"

Martha didn't look her usual self at all. They must have cleaned her make-up off in the emergency room, because she looked pale, and a dressing covered much of the right side of her forehead. Her wrist on that same side was in plaster from knuckles to halfway up her arm, and he could see bruising elsewhere on her skin where it showed around the hospital gown.

"They shaved my hair." She was angry and upset in equal measure. "My crowning glory, literally, and they shaved it."

"Only a little bit," Dr Siddig put in, checking her chart.

"More than enough!"

"It'll grow back, Mother," Rick assured her. "I expect they needed to put in some stitches."

"At least any scar will be hidden in my hairline," she added, taking comfort from that fact. "Unlike yours."

Rick had to smile, his eyes rolling up toward the small scar he couldn't see above his left brow. "Ah, Gina. Her aim always was pretty good." He touched the cast. "At least this will stop you cooking for a while."

She hit him with her free hand, quite hard for an injured, elderly lady. "Richard."

He rubbed his bicep. "You're going to be fine."

Dr Siddig hung the chart back on the end of the bed. "I concur with that diagnosis. As long as you get some rest."

"I'll see she does," Rick promised.

The doctor put his hand briefly in reassurance on Rick's shoulder then wandered out, giving Kate a wide smile as she passed him coming in.

"Martha."

"Kate, darling. I'd get up and hug you but I don't think Richard would approve," the invalid said.

"No, I wouldn't," Rick agreed with fervour. "And neither would George."

"That's Dr Siddig to you," she admonished him.

"He told me to call him George."

"He's old enough to be your father." At Rick's pointed look she went on quickly, "And no, he isn't."

"I like him," Kate stated. "There's something about him that's ... I don't know."

"He's been the family doctor for ages, ever since Richard was small." She ignored the disgruntled look on her son's face, saying, "Oh, you should have seen him thirty years ago. He used to go rock-climbing and had muscles you wouldn't believe. And a way with the ladies."

"With you too?"

Martha shrugged, then winced as something pulled.

"Mother, don't ..." Rick didn't know exactly what it was he didn't want his mother to do, whether it was reminisce inappropriately about old times that might make him uncomfortable or hurt herself with an injudicious movement, so just held her hand instead.

Kate pulled up the only chair in the room and sat down, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "So how are you feeling?"

"Battered," Martha admitted. "You know, I'm going to get a phobia over my studio at this rate."

"It takes more than that to keep Martha Rodgers down," Rick said stoutly.

"Thank you, dear." She patted his hand. "But let me be the judge of that."

"Did you see who it was?" Kate wanted to know.

"No." Her fingers began fiddling with the bedsheet. "It was dark. I thought I heard someone, then ... nothing."

"No impression at all?"

"Kate," Rick said quietly, but with a distinct warning note in his voice.

"No, Richard, it's okay." Martha shook her head carefully. "She's just doing her job."

_Definitely get that t-shirt made up,_ Kate thought but didn't say. "I only wondered."

"Well, _I_ can't believe I was so stupid as to leave the stage door open," Martha said. "As a native New Yorker I deserve to be robbed."

Rick felt Kate stiffen slightly beside him, but since she didn't say anything he didn't either. At least not yet. "Did he?" he asked instead. "Rob you?"

"I don't know. My purse is in my office." Her eyes widened with anxiety. "Oh, Richard. The apartment keys, your credit card ..."

"My –" Rick stopped himself. "We'll go and look," he promised. "It's probably exactly where you left it."

"Would you?"

"Of course."

Kate shifted slightly in her seat. "Martha, if you didn't have your purse, where did the hospital get your phone from to call Rick?"

"I had it in my pocket," Martha explained. "I was going to call you both, see if we couldn't meet somewhere for an early dinner. I just never got around to it, which turned out to be lucky. I told the nurses to use it because you wouldn't necessarily answer if you didn't know who it was."

"Good thinking." Rick smiled.

"That would be a first." She brushed at the dressing on her forehead. "They've still got it, by the way. You'd better pick it up."

He took her hand, pressing it down into her lap. "Leave it alone."

"Oh, Richard." An unexpected tear welled up and slid down her cheek. "I feel such a fool."

He pushed it away gently with the pad of his thumb. "You're not. You're many things, but I don't think Martha Rodgers could ever be described as a fool."

She smiled shakily but gratefully at him. "Thank you."

"And it's just the shock making you feel like this."

"I suppose." Martha didn't look convinced.

"I'll tell you what." Kate made a decision. "How about Rick goes to the theatre and gets your purse, and I'll go the apartment, make sure nobody's tried to get in. Besides, you'll need a few things, and I can't help the feeling he might bring the wrong ones."

"That would be lovely. And actually he's quite good at knowing the _right_ ones. He has had two wives, you know."

"And a lot of out-of-work actress babysitters," Rick put in, and shuddered theatrically. "I knew how to make a martini before I could even spell the word."

"You still can't." Martha stifled a yawn. "If your computer didn't have a spellchecker ..."

"I don't need that. I have Alexis."

The mention of her granddaughter brought up more worries. "Don't call her. Please. She'll only worry and want to come home."

"She'll want to know. And she'll be mad at me for not telling her."

"Blame me. Please, Richard." Her eyes were still wet, ready to cry if need be.

Rick sighed. "Okay." He stood up. "Try and get some sleep."

"I'm fine."

"Try." He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

"Considering what I did when I was carrying you, a little bump like this is nothing." Still, she wriggled carefully down the bed until she could rest her head on the pillow.

"And all of it fiction."

"One night. Just one night." She yawned again, too quickly to stop it this time. "I'm not tired, you know."

"How old are you?"

"I can still put you over my knee." Her eyes were beginning to close.

"You never did."

"That might be half ... the problem." Another yawn. "Spare the rod ... and spoil the child," she muttered, her speech slurring a little as sleep overtook her.

Rick ushered Kate out, saying over his shoulder, "So it's really all your fault."

She muttered something unintelligible, but it was in a dream.

Out in the hall Rick stopped. "Where's Ryan?"

"He had to get back," Kate said. "This isn't his case. He was only here as a favour."

"You know why he's doing this, don't you? Because he feels guilty."

"He saved my life." She knew she'd never forget the sensation of her fingertips slipping, knowing that she was going to fall and there was nothing she could do to stop it. "There's nothing for him to feel guilty over."

"It was _how_ he saved it."

"I do know that."

A frisson of tension passed between them, then Rick asked, "Did he tell you what happened? And what was that about a burglar?"

Kate walked towards the elevator, and Rick had to move to keep up. "Ryan said the back door was forced." She stabbed the down button. "Apparently one of Martha's students turned up to tell her he was happy to help out with the play, found the lock broken and decided to make sure everything was okay. He found your mother on the floor by the lighting board and called 911."

"Remind me to send him a fruit basket." Rick licked his lips. "Any idea who it was who broke in?"

"No. CSU could do a sweep for prints, but a place like that, there's bound to be hundreds, and whoever it was probably wore gloves." She shook her head. "Someone wanted to get in, and took a lot of effort to do so."

"Why? I mean, I can understand an opportunistic thief seeing an open door and walking in. But who'd deliberately break into a theatre?"

"Maybe it was kids." The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.

"Again, I'd get that if there was an easy way in. And the only money might be in the box office, not back stage."

"It was probably vandals. Martha scared them off."

He looked at her, his blue eyes full of something she couldn't quite explain. "Clive Sheldon dies on that stage, then my mother is attacked. I don't believe in coincidences like that. Unless _I_ write them."

"I know, Castle. And I'm not disagreeing. But there are other possibilities, and a coincidence isn't out of the question."

The elevator stopped moving, and after a second the doors opened revealing a man in a wheelchair with a porter pushing it. Kate and Rick moved out quickly to allow them in, waiting to continue their conversation until they were outside.

"So what do we do about it?" Rick asked, turning on her.

"You go and get your mother's purse, I'll go to loft and pick up those bits for her. That's what we're going to do."

"And the rest?"

"We don't know there is any _rest_." At his look she had to nod. "Yes, I know. I don't like it either. But we'll talk about it later, okay?"

"I suppose."

"Don't sulk."

"Can if I want." Still, he did smile, although it was more a twitch of the corners of his mouth.

"So are you going to call Alexis?"

"You heard my mother. She asked me not to."

"She'll want to know."

"I said I wouldn't."

Kate shook her head. "Your soft heart is going to get you into trouble, you do know that, don't you?"

"It already has." A cab disgorged a handful of visitors, and Rick grabbed the door before it could drive away. "You take it. I'll get the next one. Or use the subway."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." He smiled wider. "And I meant it about getting a car."

"You've always got your Ferrari." She slid into the back.

"In New York traffic? Please." He slammed the door. "See you later."

The cab driver pulled away from the kerb before she could respond, saying over his shoulder, "Where to, lady?"

She gave the address absently, looking out of the back window at the receding form of her lover, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, an odd expression on his face that did not bode well. She sat straight and reached into her pocket for her own cell, using speed dial. It was answered in half a dozen rings.

"Lanie? It's Kate."

"_Hey, girl. I've been wondering when you were going to call."_

"You could have called me."

"_You were the one having the mid-life crisis."_

"I'm not ..." Kate huffed heavily through her nose. "Yes. I'm sorry. But I need your help."

"_Javi said you might."_

Despite the temptation to dig deeper into that intriguing remark, Kate kept on track. "I need you to take a look at an autopsy report for me."


	9. Chapter 9

Rick watched his mother, her red head cushioned on the pillow and out like a light. No matter how much she claimed she was okay there was no way a normal person wouldn't be in shock after an incident like that, and coming on the heels of the past few it was no surprise her body had decided it required rest without bothering to consult with her mind.

It was also possible the nurse had included something in the injection she'd given her on Dr Siddig's orders, but the truth was – however it had come about – she needed to sleep.

They'd had some difficult times in the past, not least when her ex had run off with all her money and she'd come to live with him, but that was just the icing on the proverbial and perennially surprising cake that was his life. When he was young it was the 'uncles' she'd presented him with as she tried to find her soul mate, and he remembered feeling resentment that they took what little time she had when she was working, and more when she wasn't.

Edgewyck Academy hadn't improved things – a lonely boy with the usual age-related angsts plus a mother who needed to be away to work ... it took a long time before he realised she hadn't just dumped him because she was bored with him, and it was really only when Damian (whatever his faults) had encouraged him to write that he found, by pouring his emotions out on the page, he could understand them. And her.

She snuffled, her plastered arm coming up to rub at her nose, but she didn't complete the manoeuvre, just relaxed again.

It couldn't have been easy for her, Rick knew now. Working at her career because that was what she was didn't mean it was _who_ she was, and Martha Rodgers the woman wanted something much more permanent than the short-term relationships she found herself in, even if she never admitted it to anyone, least of all herself. What she wanted was a family, and the truth was – thanks to something she couldn't control – she'd finally got that and was living with a grand-daughter who adored her, and a son who loved her. Of course he did, she was his mother. She was also infuriating, frustrating, stubborn, single minded ...

He had to chuckle, swiftly subdued to avoid waking her as he contemplated his last thoughts. A psychologist would have a field day with the fact that pretty much all of those words described how he felt about Kate, too. He'd always thought he would never be looking for a mother figure ... No. He wasn't feeling particularly Oedipal, and his mother wasn't like Kate. Except for maybe the drive and ambition.

Rick smiled ruefully. The family dynamic was about to change again, now that Alexis was heading to Columbia, and that was going to be an interesting time.

Martha muttered something, the words blurred, and all he could make out was 'earnest'. Perhaps something she needed to do, or perhaps it was the play on her mind. How she was going to make it work with a cast on her wrist was likely to be interesting too, although he had a vague memory of her once telling a story of portraying Peter Pan in a neck brace.

She settled back, her head turned slightly, her mouth open, and Rick wondered if he should risk life and limb and tell her she drooled in her sleep.

He felt the other woman in his life's presence before she put her hand on his shoulder and spoke.

"Hey."

"Hey." He looked up. "Get everything?"

Kate held up a brightly coloured overnight bag. "Toiletries, change of clothes, makeup."

He smiled, but the expression behind his eyes was tired. "Good. My mother will be furious if she wakes up and finds out people will have to see her as nature intended." He paused. "And I mean without –"

"I know what you mean." She perched on the arm of the chair he was sitting in. "And you look like you could do with a solid eight hours yourself."

"Long day." He took her hand, wondering why he felt amazed when she didn't pull away. "I take it nobody had tried to break into the loft."

"No." Kate nodded towards the purse on the bedside table. "And since you have Martha's bag here, it's looking increasingly unlikely to have been an ordinary break-in at the theatre, either."

"Unless she surprised them, they pushed her out of the way and then got scared because she was obviously hurt." At her raised eyebrows he went on, "And no, I don't believe that either."

"Not that there's anything we can do."

Something in the way she said it made Rick's writerly instincts prick up their ears. "Don't we?"

She squirmed, just a tiny bit, almost nothing at all. "I just said we don't."

"Kate." He rubbed his thumb in small circles over the back of her hand. "Tell me."

She rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. "I ... _might_ have spoken to Lanie. Asked her to take a look at the autopsy on Clive Sheldon."

Rock didn't quite punch the air in triumph, but he felt like doing so. "Thank you."

"For what? It still won't prove anything, except to make the both of us even more paranoid that we already are."

"Maybe we're not paranoid. Could be they really are out to get us."

"Yes, well." She skirted the implications, the ever-present possibility that the man who ordered her mother's death was still intent on killing her too. "Anyway, Lanie's looking. And the truth is that the body's cremated, so any evidence of foul play is gone, and a respectable and very senior ME declared it a heart attack. It's going to take a miracle to find anything from a few sheets of paper."

"I've come to think miracles happen more often than we know," Rick said slowly. "I mean – look at us."

"True. That's genuinely astonishing."

He chuckled. "Mind boggling. But we try, right?"

She knew he wasn't talking about the new level to their relationship. "Yes. Of course. We try." She changed hands with him so she could run her fingers through his hair. "And I meant it when I said you needed some sleep." Rick glanced at his mother, and Kate interpreted it correctly. "The nurses are here. They'll look after her. Besides, she'll make your life hell if she finds out you watched over her all night."

"It's still early."

"Long day," she reminded him.

"I suppose." He still didn't look convinced.

She withheld the sigh and went down on her heels in front of him, making him maintain eye contact. "Rick. Come home."

If he hadn't forgotten how to blush he would have, from the depths of his chest to the roots of his hair as she said his name and spoke of the apartment as home in the same breath. He gave in. "Okay."

She stood up and pulled him to his feet. "And I'm hungry," she added. "Take out Remmy's?"

He wrinkled his nose a jot. "I'd prefer Chinese."

"Just because you like to show off your chopstick skills."

"Of course." His smile was lighter, easier this time. "You have no idea the hours I spent learning how to pick up just one grain of rice."

She shook her head in mock exasperation. "Okay, grasshopper. Chinese. Just because I'm feeling generous."

"My stomach will thank you." He allowed her to lead him out of the room, only looking back once to make sure his mother hadn't woken.

"She'll be fine."

"I know."

As they waited at the elevator Kate asked, "Everything okay at the theatre?"

"Apart from the busted stage door, yes."

"Did you leave it like that? If it's wide open there won't anything left by the morning."

"Right now I don't care if Twitter announced open house on the place." Her look of mild astonishment made him add, "No, I didn't." He sighed. "I wedged the door shut and called my locksmith again. I tell you, he should give me a bulk discount, the amount of work I've put his way lately, but he promised to get there before dark."

"And if he locks any intruders in?"

"Tough." His seriousness cracked and he laughed, if only briefly. "He'll probably check first."

They were outside when she asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yes." He immediately contradicted himself. "No. Not really."

"You were thinking about what _might_ have happened."

"Among other things, yes." He shook his head and laughed ruefully. "God, I thought it was bad with Alexis, now I have to worry about my mother as well."

"As if you didn't anyway."

"Well, yes, but it usually isn't whether she's likely to end up in the hospital. Apart from with alcoholic poisoning, of course." He winced when she hit him.

* * *

"I heard you were looking for me?"

Lanie turned, holding her arms carefully away from her body. "Harry. Yes."

Dr O'Connor, ME, stepped over the threshold into the autopsy room. "But you look like you're busy."

"Finishing up," she admitted, glancing at the ladle she held in one hand and the glass jar containing an unidentifiable liquid she'd just extracted from the corpse on the table in front of her in the other. "The jumper from last night. Just checking he was."

"And was he?"

"Yes. And from his stomach contents I'd say he was higher than the Empire State at the time."

"Booze?"

"And what looks like the remains of pills. I think he wanted to make sure."

"And when it didn't work fast enough ..."

"He took a walk off the roof."

"Open and shut."

"Well, I'll wait until the test results come in before I sign off on it." She nodded towards her office. "Make yourself comfortable – I'll only be a few more minutes then Thomas can stitch up. He needs the practice." She glared at the young man standing in the corner taking notes, who blushed heavily from his neck all the way up to his spiky red hair.

Ten minutes later Lanie followed O'Connor. He was sitting in the visitor's chair, his feet up on the table, flicking through a Cosmo magazine.

"Don't you dare do the quiz," she said, going around to her side of the desk and taking her own seat. "I haven't done that yet."

"You really need to find out if the love of your life is right around the corner?" O'Connor joked, tossing the magazine back onto her desk.

"Doesn't everyone?"

"I thought you'd found that in a certain homicide detective." He chuckled at her glare, his grey skin wrinkling as he smiled. "So, you coming to my farewell party?"

"Of course." She shook her head. "I can't believe you're retiring."

"Me neither." He rubbed at his neck ruefully. "It only seems like yesterday I was making bigger cock ups than your intern out there."

"I doubt you were ever as bad as him." Lanie studied him, the pallor that made him look more akin to some of the corpses that crossed her tables than a living, breathing human being.

"You have no idea. But that's the past. I just finished my last body. Tomorrow's all paperwork, finishing things up, then that's it. A man of leisure." He returned her gaze. "So what's up?"

"Up?"

He put his feet back on the ground. "You wanted to see me, if I recall, and my memory is about the only part of me that isn't failing."

"Clive Sheldon."

His look didn't waver. "What about him?"

"I read the report."

"And?"

"And I wondered if you could talk me through it."

"Why, is there a problem with it?"

"No. No problem. At least as far as it goes."

He straightened up a little. "Exactly what does that mean?"

"It's a little ... sparse."

"It's perfectly acceptable."

Lanie didn't speak for a moment, then said, "Doesn't make it right."

"Are you accusing me of something?"

"No. Harry, I'm not calling your skills into question. Just perhaps your judgement."

For a moment she thought he was doing to steam out, but instead he took a deep breath.

"Clive Sheldon was under the care of a specialist cardiac physician. He'd been examined by that very physician two days before his death. I've seen the said physician's medical notes – Sheldon was a walking time bomb, and the countdown was almost through. In my opinion there was no reason to perform a full autopsy at that point."

"And now?"

"I hold to my conclusions." He stood up, habitually thumbing his shirt back into the top of his pants. "If you have any real issue with my findings you are within your remit to report it, but I warn you, it won't do your reputation any good."

"Harry –"

O'Connor held up a hand. "I'm not perfect. I've never said I was. But you're suggesting I deliberately did a poor job on Sheldon, just because I'm retiring? I wanted him off my table?" He sighed heavily through his nose. "Lanie, I thought you knew me better than that."

"I'm just asking you to take another look."

"What at? The body's gone."

"And I know you. Read it through again. Something ... _anything_ out of place, anything you might have put to one side when you found out about his medical history."

His spine stiffened. "Dr Parish, I'm the senior ME in this department. I may be retiring, but I suggest you watch your step." He strode out with as much dignity as he could muster.

Lanie stared after him, then muttered, "Well, Kate, I did like you asked. The ball's in his court, now. And girl? You'd better be right about this."

* * *

Rick hung his black suit up in the wardrobe and fervently hoped it would be a long time before he had to wear it again. In the past year it seemed like it had been out far too often, and as much as dark colours suited him – black always was slimming – he felt the need for it to be away for some time to come.

Mind, he probably should spend some time going through his clothes and toss ... sorry, no, give to one of the homeless shelters if Alexis had any say in it, although he'd fight tooth and nail to keep the Hallowe'en costumes at the far end. The brown leather duster and tight pants weren't going anywhere, and the zombie outfit was destined for an outing come October 31st.

It did mean, though, that it was becoming somewhat cramped behind the doors, and he ran his hand down the suit, pushing the sleeve inside the wardrobe. He paused as his fingers encountered something in the pocket, and sighed. He'd done it again, forgotten to empty out the pockets. It didn't usually matter – since he tended to wear jeans and different jackets that he'd rotate on a fairly regular basis, he would come across anything he'd forgotten within a week or so. His suits, on the other hand ... there had been that one time when Alexis and he had hunted all day for the source of an odd smell, only to run it to earth in his closet in the pocket of an Armani suit. He couldn't remember what it had been, but the mess it made meant the suit went straight to the cleaners and Alexis fumigated the rest.

At least what was in the black suit was only from today, and he reached confidently into the pocket, pulling out the contents and tossing them onto the bed. Closing the door he glanced at his reflection in the bronze effect finish, and idly wondered if Kate had plans to redecorate.

He turned back and examined the items. A handful of coins, two screwed up receipts, an unlabelled mouth spray and the cellphone the nurse had given him in the hospital that had been in his mother's pocket. He shook his head. He'd meant to leave it with her, just in case she woke up and wondered where he was, but when Kate hustled him out of the hospital it had slipped his mind.

He checked the phone.

"Everything okay?" Kate asked, leaning in the doorway.

He held up the cell. "Mother's. With two missed calls from Alexis."

"Are you really not going to tell Alexis what's happened?" When he didn't answer she moved into the room and stood next to him. "She won't thank you for keeping her in the dark."

He responded by pocketing the cell. "I'll sleep on it," he promised. "She needs her vacation time."

"Well, rather you than me." She reached up the bare couple of inches in height and brushed her lips across his cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked, surprised.

"In advance. You're probably going to need it when Alexis finds out."

He laughed. "Probably." He slipped his arm around her waist. "Did I hear the bell?"

"Mmn. Food's here."

"Good. I'm starving." His stomach grumbled its agreement.

"Well, I can't possibly get between you and food. That could be dangerous." This time she winced when he pinched her.

* * *

Harry O'Connor sat in his office – well, it was his for another 24 hours, at least – and read through the autopsy again. He'd been right, of course: everything was totally legal, down to the last full stop. Still, Lanie Parish's words wouldn't stop rolling round inside his head. _Anything out of place ... put to one side._ He didn't believe he'd done it on purpose, but perhaps there had been something that nagged at him.

He tossed the folder onto his desk. No. No, he was right. Everything was fine. Clive Sheldon died of heart failure after a long history of cardiac disease. There were no puncture wounds, no bullet holes, no signs of external violence.

Still, there was that odd smell ...

No. He'd done his last autopsy, and in a day none of this was going to matter anymore. He was going to spend time reading all those biographies he'd never got around to, maybe grow prize-winning begonias or buy the fishing boat he'd dreamed about when he was a boy. All the dead bodies in New York were going to be somebody else's business, not his.

He sighed heavily and got to his feet, walking slowly to the door then leaning out of it and shouting, "Gilbert!"

His technician, a short, round young man wearing scrubs that stretched painfully across his midriff, stuck his head out of the department's kitchen, his mouth chewing assiduously. "Yes, boss?"

"You weren't planning on seeing that boyfriend of yours tonight, were you?"

Gilbert swallowed. "Well, we did have tickets to the Met – they're doing a modern day interpretation of Coppelia where the doll is an android."

"Call him and tell him you'll be late."

"Do you know how difficult ... Okay, fine, don't look at me like that. What delights do you have planned for us on your penultimate day?"

"Get out the test tubes."


	10. Chapter 10

"I am not an invalid!" Martha flapped Rick away with her undamaged hand. "For heaven's sake, anyone would think I'd broken something important."

Kate hid the smile as Rick tried to help his mother into the apartment as the clock on the wall marked a quarter of an hour past midday. It had been bad enough when, after all the paperwork had finally been completed, the nurses insisted on Martha riding in a wheelchair to leave the hospital and get to the car Rick had rented, but he was treating her as if she was made of glass and she was starting to get annoyed.

"You're on medication," Rick explained for the hundredth time. "I just don't want you falling down the stairs and me having to clean up the mess."

"I wasn't planning on it, kiddo." She swept into the loft then stopped dead. "Darling, what are you doing here?"

Rick looked over her shoulder at the beautiful young redhead standing in the middle of the room. "Hey, Alexis."

"Hi, Dad. Kate."

Kate waved vaguely in the background.

Martha turned on her son. "I told you not to call her."

"I didn't." As her gaze continued to bore into him he felt the need to continue, "Alexis called me. Asked where you were since you hadn't returned her messages. Can I help it if she's really good at the third degree?"

Alexis walked determinedly across the living area and reached around to take the overnight bag from her father's hand. "And I'm here now to look after you."

"I don't need looking after."

"Let me be the judge of that. And you're going to rest."

"I've been resting."

"Then you know how." Putting her arm through her grandmother's, Alexis led her to the stairs, making sure her Gram went up first, although Martha was grumbling all the way.

Rick waited until they were out of sight, then murmured, "I give it maybe half a day before my mother openly rebels."

"As long as that." Kate smiled and walked into the apartment. "So you gave in?"

"I started thinking about how I'd feel if things were reversed, if Alexis didn't tell me something because she thought it was better for me. And yes ... I gave in." He smiled in return.

"When did you grow up? Did I blink and miss it?"

"Don't worry." The smile widened. "I think there's plenty more of me being a twelve year old on a sugar rush to come."

"I'll look forward to it." Her dry tone could have outdone the Sahara.

He chuckled. "See, I always knew that was one of the things you loved about me."

Her eyebrows lifted, but she didn't make any of the hundred comments crowding in her mouth. Instead she slipped out of her light jacket and dropped it on one of the easy chairs before saying, "And the sugar rush? Not so much anymore. You're more ... mature."

"You mean I'm losing my touch?" He shook his head. "Must try harder."

"Please don't, not on my account." She changed the subject. "So when did you speak to Alexis?"

"Last night. While you were getting ready for bed." He dropped onto the couch. "She was packing before we even finished the conversation."

"And the rest of her friends? Did they come back with her?"

"I doubt it. I imagine they're living it up at my place in the Hamptons."

Kate winced as she sat down next to him. "I hope your insurance is up to date."

"Hey, if they have a good time, I don't mind if they mess the place up a little." He laughed again. "I have some excellent memories of ..." He stopped, his eyes unfocused for a moment, then remembered himself. "But that's entirely inappropriate."

"Really? I'd still like to hear."

"Then another time."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Maybe I'll tell you when we're old and grey, and have nothing left to talk about."

"You think we'll be together that long?"

"I live in hope."

His expression was suddenly that of a man being deeply honest, and she felt a frisson of something that might have been anticipation run through her. "Rick ..."

Her cellphone interrupted.

"Damn." He exhaled softly.

"Don't worry. Castle," she promised, getting to her feet again to reach into her jacket pocket. "We'll have plenty of time to talk about this."

"I'll make an appointment." He saw Kate stiffen slightly. "What is it?"

"Lanie." She thumbed _answer._ "What do you have?" she asked her bff.

"_Girl, you surely like stirring the hornet's nest, don't you?"_

"I take it there's news."

"_And then some."_

"Tell me."

Rick got to his feet to follow her, to try and listen, but at that moment the house phone trilled. He muttered something under his breath but detoured to pick it up. "Castle."

"_Boss."_ It was Eduardo, the concierge of the building. _"There's someone on their way up. Sorry – I couldn't stop her."_

"Her?"

"_Some cop."_ Eduardo didn't have much affection for the police, having had too many encounters with them in the dim and distant past. _"A lady. Flashed her badge and barged right in. No manners at all."_

There was a banging on the door.

"Did she take the stairs?"

"_Yes, boss,"_

"Then that's her. Thanks."

Eduardo was still upset. _"I couldn't stop her, not without ... you know."_

"No, that's okay. If it's who I think it is, I understand." He put the phone down at the same moment as Kate finished her call. "I think Detective Dalwood's outside."

"I'm not surprised." She waggled her cell as the banging repeated on the door. "From what Lanie's just told me, I was half expecting her."

"What did she –"

The banging, if anything, got louder.

"You'd better let her in before she has the door off its hinges."

"If she did I'd sue." Still, he flung the front door wide with a savage and theatrical intensity. "Yes?" he asked, allowing exasperation to colour his voice. "And one knock was enough."

Megan Dalwood stepped past him without invitation. "I wasn't sure you'd heard."

"I'd have to be dead not to. And come in, why don't you." He closed the door as quietly as possible. "To what do we owe this dubious honour?"

"You've been sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong anymore." Megan was about as angry as she could get, her colour actually edging towards the high side, and she directed her comment at Kate only.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Kate decided, at least for the moment, to stick with the 'deny everything' response.

"Really." Megan put her fists on her hips and tried to look imposing, which considering her normal _nebbish_ qualities was quite impressive. "If that's the case then how come I got a call early this morning – at home, I'll have you know – from Harry O'Connor, telling me he'd re-evaluated the Sheldon case and thinks there is something suspicious about it after all?"

"Suspicious?"

They were squaring up to each other, and Rick schooled his face into pleasantry, determined to stop any bloodshed. "Detective Dalwood ... Megan ... Can I call you Megan? Why don't we all sit down? I can make some coffee, and we can discuss this like adults." _Before you have a stroke_, he added wordlessly.

It was as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Clive Sheldon was poisoned." Megan's words dropped into a sudden silence, punctured only by Martha's gasp from the top of the stairs.

Rick looked up, seeing her at the turn. "Mother, I think perhaps you should go back to –"

"No," Megan interrupted. "Mrs Rodgers, I have some questions for you." She slid a small black notebook from one pocket and a pen from another.

"Did you say Clive was poisoned?" Martha didn't move.

"I did. And you talk to me either here, now, or at the station. Your choice."

Kate shook her head. "Megan, you really need to work on your people skills."

"No, it's all right," Martha said, starting down the stairs. "Whatever I can do to help."

Rick hurried to the bottom step, ready to catch her if she slipped, especially as she was walking surprisingly gingerly, her grip on the handrail showing white knuckles. Then he caught a glimpse of the look in her eyes, and wondered if they gave a Tony for _outstanding achievement in pretending to be an old lady._ Just beyond her, peering around the corner of the stairs, he could see Alexis, and from the slight tilt to her lips he knew she had seen the same as him, and had been ordered to stay put.

As Martha reached the floor, though, Kate asked, "Are you sure you're up to this?"

"I ... I think so." Her free hand fluttered at the dressing taped into her hairline, the whiteness of the surgical plaster contrasting vividly with the dark shadows of bruising across her forehead and down one side of her face.

Rick had to hide the smile as he helped her to her usual spot on the couch. The livid purple blotches had been nowhere near as visible when they picked her up earlier from the hospital, camouflaged quite successfully by her professional skill with make-up, but he could imagine his mother taking a moment before her entrance at the head of the stairs to wipe a remover pad across her skin, knowing it would gain extra sympathy points. In fact, he wouldn't have put it past her to add a little extra colour, but there hadn't really been time.

Still, Megan faltered a little at the signs of obvious damage. "What happened?" she asked, her tone moderating.

"She was attacked," Kate supplied. "In her own theatre. Hell of a coincidence, don't you think?"

Megan sniffed. "Nothing permanent, I hope."

"I'll survive." Martha took a deep, brave breath, then gave a shaky smile.

Rick, standing next to her, put his hand on her shoulder, not so much in support as warning her she might actually be going too far, and the Tony would now be for _overacting in a leading role_. "You said poison," he put in, trying to get the conversation back on track.

"Yes. Yes." Megan looked for somewhere to sit, but must have decided that by remaining standing she might stay in control. "I'm afraid so. Dr O'Connor is now of the opinion that Clive Sheldon died of nicotine poisoning."

Rick glanced at Kate, who nodded briefly.

"You mean like cigarettes?" Martha asked.

"Yes. But highly concentrated."

"How high?" Rick wanted to know, then cursed his writer's magpie-mentality for bright, shiny facts.

"Seventy to eighty milligrams – say sixty cigarettes, according to O'Connor," Megan supplied.

"But some people smoke that in a day," Martha pointed out. "I used to smoke, when I was young – it was something you did as an actor. Some days I got through more than a pack, especially if I was working. Are you saying I was poisoning myself?"

"Technically, yes." Megan's lips tightened. "But the point is, according to Dr O'Connor, there was enough nicotine in the blood samples he still had to tell that Clive Sheldon died of an overdose – or at least that it brought on a fatal cardiac event."

Rick could tell the last few words were probably verbatim. "Any idea how it was administered?"

"None." Now Megan looked frustrated. "Without the body there's no way to look for needle marks, check if there are any capsule remains in the stomach ..." She half-snorted. "We know the method, that's all."

"Maybe you shouldn't have been so quick to rule it natural causes," Kate said. "I'm sure there's any number of cases of murder going undetected because bodies are cremated too quickly."

For once Rick found himself wishing she hadn't spoken as Megan's annoyance clearly came back full force.

"There's nothing to indicate this was murder."

"No?"

"The man was dying. He had maybe three months, possibly a lot less. Who'd kill a man who was basically already dead?"

"Someone who didn't know he was sick," Rick said. "I doubt it was common knowledge."

Again Megan ignored him, something of a new experience for Rick, especially in his own home, as she turned to his mother instead.

"Mrs Rodgers, I have to ask you again if you know why Clive Sheldon was in your studio."

Martha dropped her head, seemingly engrossed in the cast on her wrist and marshalling her thoughts, then said, very quietly, "I ... think he wanted to say goodbye."

This was news to Rick, and he exchanged a raised eyebrow with Kate.

"To say goodbye?" Megan prompted.

Martha lifted her chin. "There were some missed calls from him, over the past couple of weeks. I was busy. I hadn't got back to him."

"Mother ..." Rick couldn't contain his surprise. "You knew he was looking for you? Why didn't you say?"

She brushed his question away with her hand. "I wasn't that difficult to find. I was in the Hamptons, for heaven's sake. All he had to do was knock."

"And yet he was calling. And you didn't answer." Megan was persistent.

"I told you, I was busy. I _do _have a life, detective. Things to do." The implication was clear that she thought Megan Dalwood wasn't similarly blessed.

"And the make-up? The wig? What do you think they were about?"

"Perhaps Richard's right, and Clive didn't want anyone to know he was ill." She fluttered again. "Is that all? I am rather tired."

"Just another couple of questions."

"Oh, I suppose."

"Do you think it was Clive Sheldon following you?" Megan asked, seeming more interested in her notebook than the answer.

Martha looked surprised, then thoughtful. "I ... don't know. I suppose it's possible."

"Might he have followed you to your acting school?"

"If it was him."

"Where are you going with this?" Rick asked, curious as hell.

Megan gazed at him, as if she'd forgotten he was there. "Where I'm going, Mr Castle, is the most obvious conclusion. Clive Sheldon died of nicotine poisoning."

"Which you were happy enough to ignore."

Annoyance pinked her cheeks with a faint glow, then she was all business again. "There's no indication it was anything except self-administered. He knew he was dying, and perhaps he wanted to do it when and where he chose."

"Are you suggesting he killed himself?"

"Yes." Megan's jaw came up. "Suicide whilst of unsound mind."

"Then where's the note? Suicides leave notes."

"Not always."

"Ninety percent. More. Even if it's just a text, an answerphone message."

"Then we simply haven't found it yet."

Rick took breath to argue, but knew he wasn't going to be able to change her mind, it was written all over her face.

Then his mother spoke.

"Do you think we're entirely stupid?" Martha Rodgers asked, enunciating clearly and filling the room with her voice.

Megan's blush deepened. "Excuse me?"

"Apart from the fact Clive Sheldon wasn't in the least the type to kill himself, even if he was dying – and believe me, he'd hold onto life with both hands – the last place he'd do it would be in my theatre." She stood up. "And if you won't look into his murder then I know someone who will." She swept back up the stairs, entirely forgetting her role as an invalid.

For a moment Megan just stared. "Did she ... she's ..." She couldn't finish the sentence.

"Yes, she is," Rick said, feeling a surprising amount of pride flash through him. "And she's also right – Clive Sheldon would never commit suicide. He loved himself way too much for that."

"You knew him?"

His memory tossing up the photo he'd seen in the album, Rick sidestepped. "We were neighbours in the Hamptons. Pretty much everyone knows everyone else."

"And your impression of him?"

He thought for a moment. "Honestly, I didn't like him that much. But like I said, I don't think he was suicidal."

"And if he knew he didn't have long, that a heart attack could leave him paralysed, unable to speak, to move ... don't you think that could have made him change his mind?"

"Not the Clive Sheldon I knew."

Megan almost smiled. "I admire your convictions, Mr Castle, but his wife disagrees."

"She does?"

"Even if we don't find a note, from the conversation I had with her this morning she's not at all surprised."

"And my mother being attacked?" he pushed. "Do you think that was just coincidence?"

"They do happen. Every day." Megan exhaled loudly, and her non-descriptness settled back around her like a cloak of invisibility. "With nothing else to work with, I doubt this is going any further. Your mother still needs to come in to make a formal statement, but that can wait until she's ... ah ... feeling stronger." The amount of irony in her tone would have wilted a weaker man as she headed for the door, and Rick was only just quick enough to nip around her and open it. "Believe me, there's nothing more anyone can do," she added by way of goodbye, then was gone.

Rick closed the door and leaned on it. "Why do I feel like I've just been threatened?"

Kate ran her hands through her hair. "She's been like that as long as I've known her."

"Nothing like she looks, then."

"She's actually a good cop."

"I'll take your word for it." He shook his head then said, "So ... nicotine."

"Yes." Kate sat down on the vacated sofa. "That's pretty much what Lanie told me. And from what she said, not exactly my first choice as a suicide method."

"Nor mine." He didn't ask what hers would be, knowing there might have been days when it might have seemed all too inviting, and his magpie brain yet again threw up some statistics on the number of cops who'd had an 'accident' while cleaning their guns. He shuddered, trying to keep it under control. "It's not a nice way to go. It must feel like you're drowning on dry land."

"You sound like you know."

He sat down next to her. "I did some research once. Derrick Storm was going to come up against a serial killer who specialised in its use, but I'd got bored with him by then, and killed him off."

"Temporarily." She smiled.

"Yes, well, even Conan Doyle couldn't keep Sherlock Holmes in the grave, could he?"

"If your work's around and still read in a hundred years, I'll comment then." She came back to the matter in hand. "Nicotine?"

"It ... uh ... causes irregular heartbeat, changes in blood pressure, and eventually paralyses the lungs, the diaphragm. Any one of which could cause a heart attack in someone in Sheldon's condition."

"Nice." She worried at her bottom lip with even, white teeth. "How would it be administered?"

"If I recall correctly – which I do – it's easily absorbed through the skin, hence patches for when you're trying to stop smoking."

"Could you die from using too many nicotine patches?"

"I suppose." Rick pondered. "Although you'd probably have to smother yourself in them. Or eat them."

"So how would you poison someone?"

"A concentration. Pretty much like Megan said, although I don't know the exact dosage. More, if someone was or used to be a smoker, less if not. Swallowed, breathed in ... something like that."

"And how would you get that concentrated ... what, liquid?"

"No idea," he admitted. "I'd have to look it up. Maybe you boil up the patches."

"There must be an easier way." She looked thoughtful. "It's incredible something so dangerous is sold."

"Don't let's go there," Rick implored. "I could wax lyrical for hours on the immoralities inherent in our system of government."

Kate chuckled. "Fine. But one more question."

"As long as it's nothing to do with the big corporations trying to take over America."

"No, I promise."

"Then go ahead."

"How long?"

"For it to be fatal?" When she nodded, Rick sobered. "Could be as long as two hours. Or as little as five minutes, if the concentration was high enough. And Clive wouldn't have known – the initial symptoms could be put down to his heart disease."

"That's a big window of opportunity."

"You think it was done on purpose?"

"Don't you?"

"Someone knocked my mother down. Broke her wrist. I don't believe in that kind of coincidence."

Martha's voice interrupted them. "Has she gone?"

Rick climbed back to his feet and walked to the stairs, resting his elbows on the rail as he looked up at his mother, makeup back in place. "Yes. And in something of a snit, too."

Martha smiled. "You know, that sort of word should never have gone out of fashion."

"I'll bear it in mind for Nikki Heat. Right now, though, I think we need to talk."

"You know, maybe I do need to rest for a –"

"Not this time, mother," Rick said. "It's time."

"Time?"

"For the whole truth."

"And if I don't know the whole truth?"

"Then as much as you do." He beckoned. "Come on."

"Richard –"

"Now, Mother."


	11. Chapter 11

Alexis made coffee but refused to go back upstairs. "I'm eighteen years old. I could get married. I can vote. After my Dad, do you really think there's anything you might say that could shock me?"

Martha half-smiled. "Kiddo, there are things I'm not proud of in my life, and this is one of them."

"And I'll still love you." She sat down firmly and put her glass of milk on the table in front of her. "Go ahead."

Rick felt a rush of pride for his daughter, and just a flavour of worry at the realisation that, yes, she could get married now without his consent, but he pushed that away. "You heard Alexis, Mother. Go ahead."

For a long moment Martha didn't speak, then she took a deep breath. "It's all such a long time ago. I really can't think it has anything to do with Clive's death, but ..." She looked at her son. "You were six months old when I first met Clive. I don't know if it was prolonged post-natal depression, but I couldn't seem to find an acting job to save my life, so I took what I could get, and in this case it was working for Clive in his office."

"Just ... working?"

"At first. Then ..."

"You and Clive Sheldon had an affair." He wasn't as surprised as he thought he'd be.

"A fling more than anything." She stopped, knowing she'd promised the truth. "Yes. An affair. Not that it lasted long."

Slowly the story came out.

She'd turned up at STC Imports one hot day at the end of September, in an Indian summer that had everyone still in shirtsleeves. It sounded grander than it was, with one warehouse and an office overlooking the East River, but it was the working home of three young men determined to make it – Clive Sheldon, Nicholas Turturro and Victor Cooper. The other two were generally away from the city gathering business, so she worked almost exclusively for Clive, typing letters, filing, taking phone calls. She was awful at it, and the rest of the workforce shunned her, but Clive took pity on her, keeping her on when he would have been better off replacing her.

"I even met Grace, several times. She often came to the office to meet Clive for lunch, that sort of thing." Martha looked into Rick's face. "She wasn't like she is now. Back then she was ... happier."

"Did she know about your affair?" Kate asked quietly.

"No. And if she did ... Not then. I can't see her behaving the way she did towards me if she had." Martha started to pick at the edge of the cast on her wrist. "I don't even really know why it happened. Clive insisted on taking me out to an early dinner a couple of times, knowing I had to get home because your babysitter was waiting. He always said I needed fattening up." She smiled briefly. "He even drove me home after. Then one night, as he was dropping me off, he kissed me."

"Oh, Gram," Alexis breathed.

"I know." Martha agreed. "I've always steered clear of married men – they're more trouble than they're worth." She reached over and patted Alexis arm with her free hand. "Just you remember that."

"Yes, Gram."

Rick coughed. "Can we ... get back to the story?"

"The story. Yes." Martha mused for a moment. "As I said, I don't know why I gave in, but I let him take me away for the weekend to a hotel." She shook her head. "All I could think about was Richard. Well, not the whole time. Not while we were –"

"No, thanks. I think we get that part," Rick said quickly.

"You wanted the _whole_ truth," Martha reminded him, a twinkle in her eye.

"A blow-by-blow account? I don't think so." He glanced meaningfully at his daughter.

"Dad, I do know about sex," Alexis said.

"The connotations of which we may well talk about after." He waved his hand. "But for now ..." The hand wave became a flick of his fingers, indicating his mother should continue.

Martha nodded. "Anyway, it became something of a regular thing. Grace was often away at weekends, on golfing breaks, going to spas, so he ... we ..." She stopped and licked her lips before adding, "I suppose I was vulnerable. A young, single mother, on her own ..."

"You? Vulnerable?"

She laughed, a brittle sound like glass fracturing. "You'd be surprised. I know I don't look it, but this hard shell had to be grown."

"I know you're all pussycat underneath."

"Mind my claws."

"I usually do." He got up to get the coffee jug to refill their mugs, even though of all of them only his was nearly finished. "So what happened?"

"STC expanded." Martha shrugged. "It was always on the cards, but I just wasn't good enough to keep on when it actually happened. One office became a suite, a warehouse became five ... they needed someone who actually knew what they were doing."

"So he fired you."

"It didn't matter. I was feeling increasingly guilty over the affair, and I'd been offered second lead in an off-off-Broadway show ... I was glad to leave."

As Rick poured he asked, "And the affair?"

"Ended. He already had the next one lined up." She saw the look on his face. "It was never going to be anything more than it was, and I was happy with that. Clive was never going to leave Grace, and I didn't want him to. We were just ... distractions."

"Except."

Martha smiled sadly. "You're right, kiddo. Except."

Rick sat down again, putting the hot jug on the table under a mat Alexis quickly whipped beneath. "You'd better tell us the rest."

As she sipped her coffee, Martha's eyes unfocused as she looked into the past. "We were in the Hamptons, you were five, and I was increasingly unhappy with Freddie." The brittle laugh came again. "I needed something to do so I joined the local amateur dramatic group, the Maidstone Players. Freddie didn't want me to act, but I was tearing my hair out with frustration, and this was a sort of compromise."

"I remember arguments," Rick said slowly.

"We tried to keep them to ourselves, but I guess we weren't too successful. I'm so sorry, Richard."

"That's okay." He squeezed her hand.

She went back to the story. "As it happens they were about to do a production of _The Importance of Being Earnest_, and Clive was playing Jack Worthing. When they found out I was a professional actor they bumped the girl who was going to play Gwendolyn Fairfax and gave me the part." She smiled. "Grace was in it too, giving her best impression of Edith Evans as Lady Bracknell. She wasn't bad, either."

"Is that why you chose it for your summer play here?" he wanted to know. "Clive's death made you think of it?"

"It was already in the back of my mind, but ... I suppose so. To sort of honour his memory. Besides, I got one of my very first breaks playing Cecily Cardew in a touring production when I was eighteen, so –"

"Martha, did the affair start up again?" Kate interrupted, knowing they could be immersed in hours of theatrical reminiscences otherwise.

"Yes." Her honesty made her add, "It was so easy to take an hour here or there, at their house if Grace wasn't home, on the boat if she was, tell everyone we were rehearsing if they asked." Martha looked at each of them in turn. "I can't excuse it. All I can say is that I was unhappy."

"Did Grace know?"

"By this point, yes. Not about me, but about the affairs, certainly. She confided in me that summer." Martha's skin burned with a faint flame. "That was embarrassing, having her tell me about all the other women Clive had slept with, when I was one of them."

"Why didn't she just get a divorce?" Rick asked.

"It was easier not to. A divorce, to her way of thinking, was still something other people did. And she'd got what she wanted out of it – her children. And Clive would never have even considered divorcing her. It had been her money he used to put into his share of the business, and if they ..." Martha shrugged. "I know it was mercenary, but at least he admitted it. And it wasn't as if I wanted him to marry me, the serial womaniser that he was."

"You thought he might do the same thing to you?"

"Oh, darling, I know he would have. Clive Sheldon was incapable of fidelity if his life depended on it." She realised what she had said and the colour in her cheeks almost matched her hair. "Clive was just ... available. And after the accident, not even that."

"Emily."

"Yes." She looked at her granddaughter. "Alexis, darling, would you go and get the photo album for me? It's in my closet, the cream leather one."

"All right," Alexis agreed, standing up. "But wait 'til I get back." She ran up the stairs.

"What didn't you want her to hear?" Rick asked curiously.

"Nothing. Honestly. Except perhaps wondering if I could have a shot of whisky in this." She held up her coffee mug.

"Not with the medications you're taking."

"Spoilsport."

"Absolutely." He micro-paused. "You know, if I hadn't already been born, I'd be wondering if I shouldn't have called Clive Sheldon 'Dad'."

"No," Martha said quickly. "What your father and I had, even if only briefly ... no. Besides, Clive had had a vasectomy just after Emily was born, just so he didn't have any such accidents."

Rick ignored the implication that he was one of those 'accidents'. "But he had a son."

"Not his. He knew it, Grace knew it ... I think the only one who didn't was the boy himself."

"So Matt Sheldon is a bastard. I'm not at all surprised," Rick mused to himself.

Martha looked at Kate. "There's some bad blood between them," she explained, her stage whisper filling the apartment. "Matt does those fly-on-the-wall documentaries – he looks down on fiction as a lower form of art."

"Matt ... you mean _the _Matthew Sheldon? Didn't he win an Oscar?"

Martha nodded. "Best Documentary Short. A piece on gang warfare in Sierra Leone. He and Richard have hardly spoken since."

Alexis clattered down the stairs again, the album clutched in her arms. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing," Martha assured her, waiting for her to put the album on the table before opening it to the same page she'd shown Rick. "That's Emily."

The others leaned forward so they could see.

"She's look nice," Alexis said.

"She was."

"She made me a kite," Rick said suddenly, the memory bursting on him. "It was bright red and had big yellow flowers painted on it."

"You remember?" Martha smiled. "She was very forward for her age, and she spent a whole weekend showing you how to fly it." The smile faded. "It was only a week or so after that she drowned. Grace was inconsolable, and blamed Clive, even though he'd tried desperately to save her."

"She must have forgiven him," Kate put in.

"I suppose. But like I said, she was never truly happy after that."

"What happened to the kite?" Alexis asked.

"Freddie broke it, during one of our arguments. It was the last straw." Martha heaved a sigh. "Unlike Clive, I wasn't willing to put up with that sort of treatment just for the sake of a little comfort."

Rick stirred again. "Did you sleep together after the accident?"

"No. The amateur production was cancelled, and although Clive called me a few times, asked me to meet him, I always said no. There were functions, of course, off and on, more when you bought that house in the Hamptons, but even he got fed up with his propositions being turned down. In all honesty I doubt I've spoken to him at all in the last two years."

"But you said he was trying to contact you," Kate pointed out. "He left messages."

"I don't know why. I didn't speak to him." Martha was getting irritated. "I told you."

"You told _Megan Dalwood_. That doesn't mean it was true."

"Well, it was. And I can only assume he wanted to say goodbye. Although why he thought he had to wear a hairpiece and make-up, I don't know."

"Yes, you do, Mother," Rick said softly.

She glared at him, then nodded, just once. "It's how he looked in the final rehearsals for _Earnest._ Young. Tanned. Happy." She sighed. "Old times."

Rick felt his heart go out to her, and was hit yet again by the realisation that he knew so little about her early life. Which reminded him of something else. "You mentioned a court case that happened before this. What was all that about?"

Martha shrugged. "I only know what I read in the papers at the time, and what Clive told me later." She turned the pages of the album back towards the front, finding an old black and white snap tucked behind another picture. She slid it out and laid it on the table. "I took this when I first started at STC."

It was three men, the one in the middle recognisable as Clive Sheldon from the later photo.

"Let me guess," Rick said. "Turturro and Cooper."

"Yes – the T and C from STC." She touched the one on the right, lean and tanned, in a sharp suit and collar length, dark hair. "Victor Cooper. Very full of himself. He always reminded me of a lounge lizard, or a snake oil salesman, the kind I remember from my childhood." Her finger moved to the other man. "And that's Nicholas Turturro. Nicky." Not quite as tall as the others, with mousy hair cut short, he looked like he wanted to get away from the camera, and only Clive's grip on his shoulder made him stay put. "He was nice. Quiet."

"I don't remember them from that summer in the Hamptons."

"You wouldn't. By that point, Nicky Turturro was dead, and Victor Cooper was in jail for killing him."

There was a sudden silence, broken finally by Rick saying, "And you didn't think to mention this at the beginning?"

Martha turned wide eyes on him. "Darling, you were asking about Clive and myself. Not a murder that happened while I wasn't around."

"Sometimes ..." He swallowed what he was going to say, instead taking a deep breath. "So what do you know about the case?"

"Only that Nicky was found gunned down in the offices of STC in ... I think it was February of '75. Clive was originally accused of the murder, but the police eventually found evidence to point to Victor."

Out of the corner of his eye Rick could see Kate making surreptitious notes in a small notebook, probably intending to look up the names and events on the internet, but he couldn't stop his jaw from dropping. "_Clive_ was accused?"

"And arrested, I think. Then one of his many girlfriends turned up to give him an alibi, and although they tried to crack her they couldn't, so had to let him go and look further."

"To Victor Cooper."

"Mmn." Martha suppressed a yawn.

"Do you know why Victor killed Nicky?"

"Over the business, as far as I can recall. Richard, it was nearly forty years ago." This time she allowed the yawn, but behind a well-placed hand. "I think I need to lie down after all."

"I'll turn back the covers," Alexis said, jumping to her feet and running upstairs again.

Martha watched her go, then sighed heavily. "I think I may have damaged my reputation with her."

"With Alexis? No. With me, maybe. And anyway, why didn't all this go in that play of yours?" Rick wanted to know, standing up and barely repressing the shudder as he remembered the autobiographical effort he considered more fiction than fact.

"I don't really know," Martha admitted. "Shame, perhaps. And Clive _was_ still alive."

"So was I, and you didn't mind slandering me!"

"You're family, darling. It's expected."

"Huh." He gathered the coffee cups and took them to the kitchen.

Kate got to her feet, Martha following her and putting her hand on her arm. "Kate, darling, are you planning on looking into this further?"

Kate glanced towards the kitchen, but Rick now had his head in the fridge, turning things over. "Martha, you said Matt wasn't Clive's. Do you know who the father was?"

"Not for sure. But I always wondered about Nicky Turturro. He and Grace always did get along."

"You do realise you've just given us a couple of strong motives for someone wanting to kill Clive."

"I know." Martha lowered her voice. "Look into it."

"But you told Rick –"

"I know what I said. But I've changed my mind. Someone killed Clive, murdered him. And they shouldn't be allowed to get away with it. If that detective won't investigate, someone else has to." She squeezed Kate's arm, then walked slowly up the stairs.

Kate crossed the apartment. "Your mother is ..." She couldn't quite find the right word.

"Yes, she is." Rick came out from the fridge, the squirty cream in his hand. At her look he said, "I think I deserve it, don't you?"

"A sandwich would be better for you."

"But not so much fun." He lifted the can and aimed the nozzle into his mouth, releasing a goodly quantity onto his tongue. "Wa sung?"

She interpreted that as 'want some' and shook her head. "No. Thanks."

He swallowed. "So ... are we?"

"Are we what?"

"Going to look into this further?" He jerked his head towards the stairs. "My mother's whisper is a lot louder than she thinks it is."

She looked at him, the hopeful expression in his blue eyes, and the trace of cream at the corner of his smiling mouth. As tempted as she was to say no, that it wasn't their place to do so, she knew she couldn't lie. "I'm going to check out the court case. Why don't you use your influence among your friends in the Hamptons to see if Clive had any other enemies?"

He grinned.


	12. Chapter 12

The Nautilus diner was bright, clean, and currently filled with tourists, different accents assaulting Kate's ears as she stepped inside. She had to smile. Native New Yorkers, if they had the money, did as much as they could to stay out of the city during the summer months, and yet it was the peak time of the season for visitors. She looked around, searching the faces of those already seated.

"Honey, if you want to eat you'll have to wait," a harassed-looking waitress behind the counter said, dropping two full plates of late breakfast in front of two large women who muttered, "_Danke_."

"I'm joining someone." Kate nodded towards the far corner where two suspiciously familiar men were sitting.

"Then that's fine. You want coffee?"

"Please."

"Be right over."

Kate smiled and headed for the table. "Hey."

Kevin Ryan looked up and grinned. "Hey."

She slid in next to Esposito. "Everything okay?"

"About as you'd expect." Ryan shook his head, his grin fading. "I've been teamed up with Kerrigan."

"Ah. My sympathies."

"I mean he's a nice guy, but ..." Ryan sighed heavily then lifted his fork, filled with scrambled eggs (soft, just the way he liked them) and bacon (so crisp it had shattered), to his mouth.

"Does Jenny know you're eating that?" Kate asked, her lips tilting.

"She's away," Ryan responded a little indistinctly as he chewed then swallowed. "Work-related. And Gates is cracking the whip. I need the protein."

"Still, it must seem like punishment drill," Esposito put in. "I mean, Kerrigan, bro."

"I know." Ryan sighed again.

They shared a moment's silence as each contemplated the tall, grey-haired detective who had occasional problems with his stomach, and would regale anyone he could corner with intimate details of when, and where, and how many times.

"We were on stakeout most of yesterday afternoon," Ryan added, shuddering at the memory.

Kate reached across and patted his hand.

Esposito was more direct. "Just goes to show how good a partner I was."

"Was?" Ryan's face paled and his voice squeaked.

The waitress brought a mug, emblazoned with the seashell logo of the Nautilus, and put it down in front of Kate. As she poured from the coffee jug in her other hand she asked, "Refills, fellers?"

Ryan put his hand over his mug, but Esposito lifted his, and she smiled warmly at him, making sure his coffee lapped the brim before she sashayed away.

"She's too old for you, Espo," Kate said quietly.

"Maybe," Esposito said, watching her backside as it disappeared around the counter. "But I bet she could show me a thing or two."

"And Lanie would have your guts for garters," Ryan said, pointing at his ex-partner with his knife.

"Guts for what?"

"Something my gran used to say," the Irish detective explained.

"And Kevin's right," Kate agreed.

"Hey, Lanie and me ... we're not ... together," Esposito complained. "We're just talking."

"And that kind of talking gets you engaged." Ryan waggled his ring finger, grinning widely, all thought of Kerrigan and his bowels out of his mind.

"Do not say that. _Never_ say that."

Kate sipped her coffee, noting idly that it wasn't as good as Castle's, just enjoying the banter. She'd missed it, even in the short time she'd not been a cop. People thought being a homicide detective was all doom and gloom, and in some aspects it was. Dealing with death, grief, anger ... it was hard, but that only meant that the pressure had to be released some other way. Inappropriate humour, bad jokes, a history of not taking the things that didn't matter seriously ... no wonder Castle fit right in.

"You know you and Lanie are going to end up together," Ryan was saying. "You fit. Like me and Jenny. Like Beckett and Castle."

"Hey, don't get me involved in this," the woman in question said.

"And I still haven't forgiven you for not telling me in person," Esposito said, glaring at her. "I had to find out about it third hand."

"What, you think I should have hired a plane and had it written across the sky?"

"Yeah."

"Next time, Espo, I will," she promised.

Ryan, finally defeated by the food on his plate, pushed it away from him, glancing at his watch as he did so. "Guys, as much fun as this is, I have to get back." He looked at Kate. "So ... Victor Cooper."

"Yes. Victor Cooper."

He reached into his pocket for his notebook, flipping through it to find the correct page.

Kate had called him the evening before while Rick and Alexis were cooking dinner, Martha sitting at the counter directing operations. Despite working for several hours, filtering through a large amount of dross for that nugget of golden knowledge, she and Rick had managed to come up with a handful of printed sheets that they had pored over. It hadn't been a great deal, not much more than Martha had already told them, but at least some of the blanks had been filled in.

Sitting at the table with the results in front of them they both stared at the photo of Victor Cooper being led from the black and white into the precinct, his face turned to the camera, a half-smile on his lips.

"Your mother was right," Kate commented. "Lounge lizard."

Rick read from the copy of the article from the NY Ledger. "_The ghost of Nicholas Turturro was finally laid to rest as Victor Cooper was sentenced to a minimum of twenty-five years for his slaying. Mr Turturro, a partner in the business of STC Imports and a stalwart of the New York arts scene, was gunned down in the prime of his life by a masked assailant in his office on February 12__th__ this year, just two days before his 30__th__ birthday."_ Rick chuckled. "Their style's improved."

"You think?" Kate shook her head. "I was reading an article the other day I would swear was written by the same person."

"Could be – journalists don't die, they just lose their byline." Rick sat back in his seat, pushing his fingers through his hair then interlocking them behind his head. "You'd think there'd be more. On Victor."

"It was 1975, Castle."

"So?"

"So the internet wasn't around then, this is probably pretty much it." She glared at the laptop. "I'd know more if I could get into the police databases." She tried, but her passwords had obviously been suspended.

"Then call Ryan. See if he can dig deeper."

She bit her lip. "I don't know. I'm not sure I should be involving him."

"I've asked my pals to let me know if they find anything out," Rick pointed out.

"Let me think about it."

At that point Martha swept down the staircase, Alexis at her back, and told them to clear up the table as people were going to be eating off it.

Kate shuffled the papers into a pile, sighing a little.

"Missing your murder board?" Rick asked softly.

"I'm just used to it all being there, you know? In one place."

He smiled enigmatically, she sighed and shook her head, and they both tidied up, Kate already planning what she was going to say to Ryan.

Now, in the diner, the cop rubbed ketchup from the corner of his mouth and perused his notes. "What you found on Cooper is pretty much correct. Twenty-five to life for the murder of Nicholas Turturro in 1975."

"So he was ... what ... paroled in '95, maybe 2000?" Esposito mused.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Ryan tapped his notebook with his thumb. "Except Victor, never exactly a model prisoner, got caught up in a riot in '89 when a guard got killed, and he had a further term added."

"Did he do it?" Kate asked.

"The judge didn't care. He said they were all as guilty as each other, gave every one of them a further life term."

"So he's still behind bars." Kate could see one of the few potential suspects disappearing over the horizon.

"Nope." Ryan was obviously enjoying this. "He _was_ paroled last month."

Kate sat up. "Any idea where he is?"

"Not yet. I've got a call in to his parole officer, see if he can give me any more information, but he hasn't got back to me yet."

Esposito sighed. "Come on, bro. And the rest."

Ryan grinned. "Okay, there is more. Victor has a son. First name Fennimore."

It took a moment to register, but Kate's jaw dropped. "_Fennimore_ Cooper? As in _Last of the Mohicans_ Fennimore Cooper?"

"No relation as far as I can find out."

"Victor has to have a sense of humour."

"Well, it hasn't done Fen Cooper much good. He has a record as long as Javi's arm, mostly alcohol related, although he did a two-stretch for beating up his drug dealer. He got clean inside, but word has it he slid back into his old ways pretty quickly."

"You've found out a lot in a short time," Kate said. "Impressive."

"I told you, Jenny's away. The bed's empty so I ... I've put in a few extra hours this morning." He looked down, almost embarrassed.

"It's okay to be in love."

Ryan lifted his head, his eyes shining. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?" Before the conversation could deteriorate any further into sentimentality, he went on, "Anyway, Fen has been quite vocal in his attempts to get Victor a retrial. He says his father didn't kill Turturro."

"Does he say who he thinks it was?"

The Irish cop paused for effect. "Clive Sheldon."

Kate felt the familiar thrill of the hunt. "Find out what you can on Fen Cooper, where he is. Same with his father."

"Will do." Ryan checked his watch again. "I really do have to go."

"No, that's fine. And thanks." She saw him reach into his pocket for some cash, and added quickly, "No, I've got this."

He laughed as he slid out of his seat. "Does this count as bribery and corruption?"

"You can pay next time."

"You're on." Ryan flashed a grin then hurried out of the diner.

"Okay, say it." Kate turned to Esposito as soon as the door had closed.

He didn't answer for a moment, his mouth a thin line. Then when he did speak it was low and slow. "Ryan's my boy, you know?"

"I know." She understood. "You think I'm asking too much of him."

Esposito nodded. "Gates is already suspicious."

"I know." Kate took a deep breath. "But I feel like I'm working in the dark here."

"You could always leave it to Megan Dalwood."

"She's still thinking suicide."

"And maybe she's right. Look, Beckett ... Kate ..." Esposito seemed uncomfortable using her first name. Technically they had been equals, there being no ranking of detectives, but she'd always taken the lead, and her instincts had guided them most of the time to the guilty party. "If he gets suspended or worse, Jenny'll never forgive me."

"I won't ask him for anything else," she promised.

"Good." Esposito relaxed. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Can you talk to your connections? See what you can find out?"

"Will do. And you?"

Kate shrugged. "See if Castle's made any headway."

* * *

"Matt Sheldon is broke."

Kate took the keys out of the front door and glared at Rick standing a few feet inside the loft. "You couldn't wait until I was inside?"

"I thought you'd want to know. Matt Sheldon is broke."

"You don't have to sound so happy about it."

"Just because I don't like him doesn't change the facts." He watched her close the door. "He's wiped out. If his mother hadn't been bailing him out he'd have lost his car, his apartment ... everything."

"_That_ broke?"

"Flat busted. Any flatter and he'd be roadkill."

Kate passed by him to the couch. "What happened?"

He joined her. "Just because he won the Oscar doesn't mean he's good at anything else. Apparently he invested all his money in a series of art house films that flopped so badly they didn't even make it to DVD, and by that point nobody would touch him."

"How did you find out?"

"My friends in the Hamptons, confirmed by more recent contacts in the film industry. I'm not the only one who thinks he's a jackass – there were plenty of people willing to dish the dirt on him." He smiled. "Apparently Clive got fed up with him scrounging and cut off his funds, then cut him out of his will."

"That's not exactly a motive for murder to do it _after_ the will was changed."

"Ah, but Grace gets the majority of Clive's cash. And she's kept him afloat so far, and there's no reason that will stop. Besides, there were rumours that Clive was about to change it again, leaving most to charity."

"And your mother said Grace had money, so again ... not really a motive." She saw his face fall. "But good work. It definitely makes Matt a person of interest."

He warmed. "Thanks. I knew you'd like it. What about you? What did Ryan say?"

Kate quickly went over the discussion from earlier. "Two more good suspects."

"Victor Cooper? He's going to be older than my mother," Rick protested.

"So?" Kate turned to gaze at him. "Since when did age stop someone being a murderer?"

"Point taken."

They sat quietly for a moment, each contemplating the possibilities, then Kate said, "Where's Martha? I thought she'd want to hear about all this."

"She's gone to the theatre with Alexis."

Kate smiled slightly. "Getting back on the horse that threw her?"

"I think she'd probably say it was more like closing the stable door after this particular horse had bolted, but she wanted to make sure it was all secure."

"And you didn't want to go with her? Make sure she was safe?"

"I doubt lightning will strike twice. Well, three times, in this case."

"And Alexis let her go?"

"Only after a spirited argument and insisting she accompany her. That was fun."

Something about him made her eyes narrow. He seemed ... smug. Smugness of a smug kind she hadn't seen on him in a while. In fact the last time he'd been this ... smug, she'd had to tweak his nose. She flexed her fingers.

"Okay. What've you done?"

"Me?" Oh, he did the innocent act pretty well. Probably learned it at his mother's knee.

"You. Come on. Tell me."

"I haven't done anything."

"Much. You forgot to add the 'much'. And I'll be the judge of that."

"Actually, I think you'll like it."

Her eyes narrowed. "It's not a dog, is it?"

"You want a dog?" His eyebrows almost reached his hairline. "Because I can get you a dog."

"No. Yes." She shook her head. "Not yet."

"Tell me when."

"I will." She turned enough so she could look into his blue eyes. "So what _did_ you do?"

He smirked. "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Close your eyes."

"Castle ..."

"I promise it's nothing that'll bite, sting or burn."

"I'm not sure that's good enough."

"Just close them."

She glared at him, then did as she was asked. He helped her to her feet, leading her across the living room and through what she felt sure was the study door.

"Okay, you can open your eyes."

She did as she was bid, and her mouth dropped open. "Castle ..." He'd moved things around a little and put a folding desk and one of the chairs from the poker table under the window. On it were an executive folder and spare pads, a tub of pens, files ready for use. "Why did you ...?"

"I just thought it might make you feel more at home." He gestured to the electronic screen, centred with a picture of Clive Sheldon culled from the NY Ledger. "I know how you like it old school but I couldn't get a whiteboard in time."

"At least it's not one of Jordan Shaw's."

"No," he sighed, obviously still with a yen for that particular piece of high tech gadgetry.

She knew she should be angry with him for assuming, for meddling yet again in her life ... but she couldn't. Instead a slow smile lifted the corner of her mouth. "That's ... sweet."

"Do I hear damning with faint praise?" he asked, looking into her eyes, searching for something.

"No. No, I'm actually being honest. It _is_ sweet. And unexpected."

"Nice to know I can still surprise you."

"You often do."

"Is that good or bad?"

"I'll get back to you on that one."

"Anyway," he said, crossing to the temporary desk and moving the pens half an inch, "if you're going to work this case you need somewhere to do it from. And I'm just here." He nodded towards his own domain.

"So the Hamptons is out of the question?" she teased.

He turned, his face lit by that grin she once thought was conceited. "I can always throw Alexis's friends out of the house. I mean, if you wanted to work on your tan."

"No, I think they're safe."

Tiny lines dented the skin between his eyebrows. "Unless you weren't joking and –"

"Rick, stop." Calling him by his first name still felt unusual, but it was getting easier. "This is great. Honestly."

He beamed like a child being praised for getting his sums right. "Oh, and there's ... this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black leather wallet. Handing it across he shrugged deprecatingly and added, "In case you felt naked."

She flipped it open. On one side was a fake cop badge, the gold already wearing off the plastic, while on the other, under a clear plastic cover, was an ID card. Her photo blazed front and centre, and the words KATE BECKETT – PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR sat beneath in bold black type. Behind was a stylised eye, making it look like something out of the 1930s.

"You did this?" she asked, looking up at him.

"It's amazing what you can do with a little photoshop," he admitted. "I had to have something to do while I was waiting for people to return my calls."

"And the photo?" It wasn't the normal one from her IDs, but a more relaxed head and shoulders. She was actually smiling, and her hair fanned behind her as if caught by the wind.

He smiled again, this time more shyly. "One of my collection."

"Just how big is this 'collection'?" she asked, taking a step forward. "Do I have to arrest you for stalking?"

"Well, I've got the plastic handcuffs that came with the kit." He raised an eyebrow. "Apples."

"I know." She shook her head, but her eyes were shining. "And this won't fool anyone."

"It's not meant to. You're not licensed, and you don't technically have a client – unless you count my mother – so really ..." He let his voice drift away.

"You think I should be a PI."

"I think it could be fun. A gumshoe. A hard-boiled private dick." He laughed. "Although in the sense of – "

"Rick, stop talking. Your mouth is getting you into trouble again."

"Story of my life." He grinned. "But it _could_ be fun."

"Fun." She was shocked to find herself actually considering it.

"And you'd be good at it," he added, pressing his advantage.

"I'm no Rockford."

"I was thinking more Charlie's Angels."

"I'm sure you were."

"Only the original incarnation. There was something about Jill, the brunette ..."

"Kate Jackson."

His eyes widened. "Don't tell me you were a fan."

"Re-runs."

"Whereas I, I'm sad to say, can just about remember it the first time around."

"Was your mother in it?"

"She had bit parts in a lot of things, but I imagine she considered it was slumming. Live performances are her first love." He put his hand to his heart and tried to look theatrical, then ruined it by adding, "Although she was in _The Love Boat_."

"I used to love that show."

"How did I know that?"

"It was ... fun. Mindless escapism."

"And every story had a happy ending."

"Real life isn't like that, Castle."

"It can be. Look at Joe and Vera."

"And two people died so they could have their happy ending."

"Technically three ..." And her look he went on quickly, "But that's not the point."

"So what is?"

He swept his arm around to include the desk and board. "We know Clive Sheldon was murdered. We have a case. And now you have somewhere to work it from." He warmed to his theme. "Then, if you like it, maybe we can kit out the office at The Old Haunt. Now that would be the place for a PI to work from. And I know the owner, get us a good rate." His eyebrows tried to entice her in.

Kate's cellphone rang. "You do know I haven't decided what I'm going to do, don't you?" she said as she took it from her pocket.

"Just giving you some options."

She smiled suddenly, and a faint blush raced across Rick's cheeks. Then she spoke into the phone. "That was quick."

Kevin Ryan's voice filtered back. _"It turns out Victor Cooper was paroled for medical reasons. He's sick – very sick. Cancer. He's dying."_

"So not a good candidate for murder suspect."

"_Probably not, but he might know where his son is. Fen Cooper has been in the wind for some time – his probation officer hasn't seen him in nearly six months."_

"So where's Victor?"

"_A care home in Queens." _Ryan gave an address which Kate scribbled down on one of her new pads with one of her new pens as Rick beamed. _"I spoke to the administrator – they know you're coming."_

"Thank you, Kevin."

"_No problem, boss. What else do you need?"_

"No," Kate said firmly. "Nothing else. I don't want you getting in trouble."

"_Yeah, but I –"_

"I mean it. One of us has to have a job. Now go do yours."

Kevin laughed lightly. _"I still want to know how it goes."_

"I'll keep you in the loop." She signed off and looked up at Rick. "Fancy a road trip?"

"Can I drive?"

* * *

They discussed the case, tossing ideas around that grew wilder and more fantastic, as Kate drove through the early afternoon traffic.

Despite his earlier reservations about his age, Rick wasn't so eager to give up on Victor as a potential suspect, though.

"Bucket list?" he suggested. "He's dying, knows the man who put him behind bars is still out there, alive, and decides to make sure he goes first?"

"I don't know. Would you?"

"If I thought I'd been cooped up like Cooper for half my life, maybe." He grinned, pointing up the verbal pun.

She didn't sigh, but only because she was negotiating a double-parked vehicle at the time. "Your mother said Clive was cleared."

"Kate, I've written more than one book where the murderer has put the blame on someone else."

"Ideas drying up?" she teased.

"No. Except there's really only a handful of different stories out there. It's just how we put them together, add the flourishes, that make it work." He wasn't about to be sidetracked. "And I don't doubt Clive had the imagination to make sure Victor was thrown in prison for his own crime."

"Don't worry," she assured him. "It's one of the questions I intend to ask."

He settled back then, and Kate knew he was just enjoying being out on a case with her again, and as the car ate up the miles she began to seriously consider what she was going to do next, and even the possibility of becoming a private investigator.

The nursing home was in what appeared to be a large old house, probably mid 1880s, according to the fount of all architectural knowledge that was Richard Castle, and set in grounds that had once been a lot bigger before time and necessity had meant plots being sold off to local builders.

Amanda Acherman was waiting for them, her curvy figure corseted by a navy blue suit, frills of her cream blouse showing at the neckline. Her blonde hair was equally controlled in a neat and very tidy bun at the back of her head, her blue eyes wide and missing nothing.

"I wouldn't mind being nursed by her," Rick murmured, then dodged out of the way of a swinging elbow as they crunched up the gravel path towards her.

"Miss Beckett?" the blonde asked. "I'm Dr Acherman. I understand you want to speak to Victor Cooper."

"Yes." They shook hands. "This is Richard Castle."

Rick smiled, but the doctor's eyes barely made contact with him before focusing again on Kate.

"I wouldn't normally allow it, but Victor was quite insistent when I told him."

Kate nodded. "I promise I won't take up much of his time."

"Yes, well, he doesn't have a great deal of that left."

"How much does he have?" Rick asked, following the women inside the house, into the faint scent of antiseptic overlaid with floral cleaners, and an almost overwhelming sensation of decay, both human and spiritual.

"Possibly as much as six months. I can't, of course, go into any details." She led the way through towards the rear, where a large room had been set aside as a lounge. "The rest of the residents are taking their nap, so you shouldn't be disturbed."

Kate's gaze was fixed on the man in the wheelchair by the window, a drip running into his arm from a bag suspended behind him, blankets around his shoulders despite the warmth of the day. "Thank you."

"If you need anything, just ring." Dr Acherman indicated a bell push marked as _FOR ASSISTANCE_, then strode out, her high heels clacking on the wooden floor.

Kate glanced at Rick, who shrugged faintly, before walking forwards. "Mr Cooper? I'm Kate Beckett, and this is Rick Castle. We're –"

The man in the wheelchair lifted his head. "I know who you are. And you'd better sit down, because I'm not craning my neck for anyone."

They did as they were bid, moving around him to a pair of easy chair, and at the same time getting their first good look at Victor Cooper.

He was an old man. That was the first impression. Nothing like the photos taken at the time of Turturro's death. He still had his hair, although it was now a white wave brushed back from his forehead and falling to his collar, but his cheeks were pinched, papery, and his body seemed to have shrunk in on itself.

Then he looked Kate in the eye and smiled. _Lounge lizard._ That's what Martha had said, and suddenly Kate could see him in a sharp made-to-measure suit, gold chain just showing through his open shirt collar nestling in chest hair, his watch big enough to be used on the town hall. Alligator shoes, of course, and lots of expensive cologne.

"Detective Nikki Heat." Victor looked at Rick. "And her creator. I'm a huge fan."

"Really?" Rick said, unable to stop himself.

"Of course. Your books are almost required reading inside. Most of my fellow inmates just wanted some honest escapism, but there were a few who were looking for something else. After all, they're so meticulously researched ..." He laughed, but it was the sound of pebbles down a gravestone.

"I ... aim to please."

"We'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's okay." Kate felt diffident, and it irked her. She was used to striding into an interview and demanding answers, but here and now she had no authority, and it grated. Even the fake PI badge, which she'd picked up while Castle wasn't looking and slid into her jacket, was doing nothing but burning a hole in her pocket.

Victor shrugged. "Ask away. I've got nothing to hide. And nothing to lose." He pulled one of the blankets a little closer. "I suspect you're looking into Clive's death."

"Yes. Yes, we are."

"Don't look so surprised. We might be just as effectively banged up in here as I was in prison, but we still get the papers and TV. Besides, I remember Martha." His expression changed for a moment to one of leering as he glanced at Rick, but it was gone too quickly for the writer to comment.

"Then I hoped you might be able to shed some light on the matter," Kate went on quickly, nevertheless.

"You mean did I kill him?" Victor laughed again, deeper this time. "Lady, I can't even get up out of this chair to take a dump without some pony-tailed bastard helping me, so no, I didn't."

She knew he was trying to get a reaction from her, so merely asked, "Do you know who did?"

Victor gazed at her, then sighed, his breath rattling in sick lungs. "You're talking about all the fuss Fen used to make."

"That you were innocent of killing Nicholas Turturro."

He didn't speak, just looked at her, his eyes roaming over her face, her hair, her body, as if he was trying to memorise it.

Rick coughed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Well?" Kate asked finally. "Did you?"

Another laugh, this one softer, more thoughtful, and Victor smiled, exposing even, white, sharp teeth. "Oh, my dear. Of course I killed him."

Kate was taken aback. "You pleaded not guilty."

"What do you expect? You don't really think I wanted to spend the rest of my life in jail, do you? If there was any chance of getting away with it, I was going to take it."

"Your son thinks you're innocent."

"Fen had a slightly rose-coloured view of his old man."

"Have you told him?"

"I used to. He thought I was covering up for someone."

"Clive Sheldon?"

"That might be a possibility."

"Are you?"

"You mean did he pay me to take the rap?" Victor smiled, putting them both in mind of a snake about to strike. "There's not enough money in all of his bank accounts."

Rick obviously wanted to get it straight. "So you killed Nick Turturro."

"I didn't have much choice."

"I have to say your honesty is refreshing," Kate noted.

"And I don't think you'd have believed me if I said I was innocent, would you?" Victor looked her up and down again, sweeping his gaze over her as if he would do the same thing with his hands if he could. "I think you can see under ... everything."

"Perhaps."

"That's what Fen couldn't understand. I'm a bad man."

Kate recoiled internally. That was something Castle might say, but it would be with self-deprecation, not pride as with this man. "And just how far did this badness extend?"

"Beyond murder, you mean?" He smiled, and now it was a crocodile. "Or are you asking if Clive Sheldon was whiter than white?"

"Either. Both."

Victor sat back, looking as if he was deciding how much to tell them. "Clive, Nick and myself started our business straight out of college. It was the sixties, flower power was blooming but draft dodging and anti-war protest rallies were on the horizon, and there were lots of opportunities for ambitious young men to make a killing importing certain ... items."

"Drugs."

"Once in a while. At first it was just because we needed a quick inflow of cash, but after ... it was too easy."

"Even with the law on your tail?"

"They were never that close. Besides, Clive was the brains, I was the brawn. We expanded when Clive married Grace, used her money, but by then it was something of a habit." He chuckled at his own pun.

"What about Nick Turturro?" Rick wanted to know. "Where did he fit in?"

"Nicky ..." Unaccountably Victor's face softened. "Nicky was the baby. He didn't know what was going on, and if he did he turned a blind eye."

"So what happened?"

"He got a bad case of honesty. We had a big shipment, there was some trouble and some people got killed ... Nicky wasn't about to let that slide. He was going to go to the cops, tell it all." Victor shrugged. "I talked to him, tried to get him to see reason, and when that didn't work I shot him with Clive's .38."

"And Clive knew?"

"After the fact. And he wasn't going to tell anyone, at least until they arrested him and he made a deal."

Kate took a deep breath. "Was Clive still involved with his suppliers?"

Victor shrugged. "No idea. I've been otherwise engaged, remember?" He glanced down at himself, and an expression of disgust crossed his features. "Ms Beckett, I was lucky they didn't give me the needle, and yet here I am, with it stuck in my arm anyway."

"Except Clive was writing his memoires. And it sounds like there might be a lot of people out there who don't want him telling the truth about a lot of stuff."

"You mean like me?" Victor shook his head. "Lady, I'm dying. Do you really think I care if the DA decides to prosecute me for drug offences forty years ago?"

Rick stirred. "What about Fen? Perhaps he's the one protecting you."

"Even Fen wasn't quite that stupid."

"You don't like your son much."

"Is it that obvious? And I thought I'd hidden it so well." Victor waved his hands. "Anyway, I don't think it's him."

"Why not?" Kate asked. "He's been very vocal in insisting you're innocent."

"And then I had my term extended for that little contretemps with a guard, and Fen didn't take it all that well. I always figured that was part of the reason he got into the drugs himself, just to not have to think about it."

"Are you sure he wouldn't want to take matters into his own hands? If, as you say, he's got blinkers on when it comes to you and the memoires were specific about those events, how would he feel?"

"He always considered I was protecting Clive. He had this idea I was in love with Grace and would do anything to stop her getting hurt. Why, God knows. I haven't seen the woman in decades."

"Mr Cooper ..." Something had obviously been bothering Rick, and he now spoke slowly. "You've been talking about your son in the past tense. Why?"

Victor fixed surprisingly clear eyes on the author. "Because I think Fen's dead. I haven't heard from him in six months, and he used to visit regularly, write letters when he could. And since I imagine you wouldn't be here asking these questions of me if you knew where he was, then he's not locked up someplace. No, I think he's lying somewhere, a needle in his arm, and nobody gives a shit." He sounded surprisingly bitter for a man who had confessed to not liking his son.

"You haven't reported him missing," Kate said gently.

"Who's going to bother about the junkie son of a murderer? There are other, more high profile crimes to solve." Victor coughed, the sound going on for a long time, then he hunched over. "Anyway, I've got nothing else to tell you."

Kate nodded and stood up, Rick doing the same. "Is there anything we can get you?"

"You might ring the bell on your way out."

* * *

"A dead end." Rick stared out of the window at the buildings whipping by them. "Two, if you think Victor's right about his son."

"If."

"I believe him."

"That doesn't surprise me." Kate kept glancing into the rear view mirror, and only half her mind was on the conversation.

"No, I mean it. Ryan said Fen's probation officer hadn't seen him in six months, Victor hasn't heard from him in the same length of time ... I think Fennimore Cooper is lying dead in some abandoned building, and has been for some time." He shuddered as his writer's imagination supplied a graphic image.

Kate didn't answer for a moment, then she nodded, just once. "My gut says the same."

"So now what? Kate?"

"I think someone's following us." Kate dropped the words into the sudden tension.

Rick swivelled in his seat so he could look out of the back window. "The tan sedan?"

"That's the one. It's been with us for a while."

"Well, this is the main route back from Queens."

"And it's been slowing when I slowed, and speeding up when I did."

"Then I think we need to call for back-up."

"I'm not a cop anymore."

"So? I pay my taxes – I deserve protection." He pulled his cellphone from his pocket.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling 911."

"No." She reached out and pushed the phone down. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"Because this _is_ the main route back from Queens."

"Then what do we do?"

"Can you see the plates?"

Rick squirmed, lifting himself up as far as he could to get a better view. "No," he admitted, sitting back. "It looks like they're covered in mud."

"And it hasn't rained for days."

"Your spidey-cop-senses are tingling, aren't they?"

"Just a little."

"You know, I never did ask Victor about why he called his son Fennimore," Rick said apropos of absolutely nothing.

Kate understood – he had his own type of coping mechanism. "Well, if Fen is dead, I doubt it makes any difference now," she said quietly, wishing her gun was nestling at her waist.

"Good point."

"You know, I've had enough of this." With an experienced hand she moved the car over and turned right at the next junction, leaving her signal until virtually too late.

The sedan was almost blocked in, but managed to slide out and follow them, causing a number of cars to hoot in protest.

"Okay, that's pretty plain," Rick said, once again lifting his cellphone, this time connecting to the emergency service without Kate interrupting.

She was watching the car behind, still pacing them, a grim look on her face. "Okay, jackass," she murmured, turning right again. "Time to see who you are."

The signs had indicated road works, and there they were, just ahead. As she'd hoped, their lane was blocked, a man in a hard hat and day-glo vest directing traffic through the gap, with the red stop sign their way.

"Perfect," she stated, seeing at least one car behind the sedan. Then her breath hitched. "Castle ..."

He'd seen too, but could do nothing.

The sedan suddenly put on a burst of speed, swerving onto the wrong side of the street and narrowly avoiding a cycle courier. It pulled level, and Kate twisted the wheel, whether to follow or force him off the road wasn't entirely clear. For a moment she saw the open passenger window, and the driver, wearing dark clothes and shrouded in shadow, holding something in his hand.

"Shit!" She pulled back, stamping on the brakes, but the window next to her crazed at the same moment as the sound of the gunshot hit them, and the front tyres of their car buried themselves in a mound of sand, stopping them with a jerk.

"Kate!"


	13. Chapter 13

Rick had been in police chases before. He trusted Kate's driving, trusted _her_ to get them out of a tight spot, or to catch the bad guys, or at least to their final destination in one piece. And in this case he was pretty sure it was only her skill that had saved their lives.

He'd seen it, seen the gun at the same moment she did, and he'd not been in time. Again. So close and he still couldn't get in front of the bullet, to save her. He hadn't been able to stop himself shouting her name, but as the back wheels continued to try and dig them deeper into the sand pile he felt for his seatbelt catch, fumbling with it until it released. As the tension relaxed from across his chest he quickly put the car into neutral, feeling it beginning to idle as he turned to Kate.

The air bags hadn't deployed, which in this case was a good thing because he didn't have to fight them to get to her. She was slumped forward, held in place by her own seatbelt, her hands still on the wheel, glittering fragments from where the side window had shattered on impact scattered across her like diamonds.

"Kate? Kate, honey, can you hear me?" He reached under her arm, checking for blood, checking for wounds. "Kate? Please. God, Kate, please."

He didn't know what he would do if ... He couldn't even pull the thought together. Not like this. Not now he'd got what he wanted, what he'd waited so long for. If anything happened to her ...

She groaned.

"Kate?" His breath caught. "Sit still. Help's coming." He could see the workmen from the road site clustered around the car. "Help's on its way, baby."

"Baby?" she muttered, sitting back slowly and opening her eyes, even if it was more of a squint.

His heart leaped into life in his chest. "Kate?"

"Damn." She unpeeled one hand from the steering wheel and pressed it to her forehead for a moment, her palm coming away red. "Did you get the number of the truck that hit me?"

He had to laugh, just a bark that released some of the worry inside him. "Sorry, no. No, I didn't."

"Pity." She shifted in her seat.

"Kate, sit still. You might still have –"

"I'm not shot, Rick."

"No." He blinked tears away. "No, I can see that." He coughed, not really needing to clear his throat at all. "Are you ... hurt anywhere else?"

"Only my head. I think I banged it on the wheel when we crashed." She glared at the red stain on her fingers.

"Then we were lucky."

"Yeah."

A man in a hard hat and Pancho Villa moustache, looking like an escapee from the Village People, leaned in the window. "You folks okay?"

"Yes," Kate said, getting in first. "Yes, I think so."

"Then we'd better get you out. Just in case your fuel line is ruptured or anything."

Rick tried his door but it was jammed against something outside, and as he fought to free it his eyes were drawn to a small metallic object embedded in the frame of the windshield. He swallowed hard, knowing this was just another item to add to his supply of bad dreams.

It took two men to open Kate's door, but in a moment she was outside, broken window glass shimmering to the ground.

"Did anyone get a look at the licence plate of the other car?" Kate asked as they helped her across the street, out of range of any explosion.

Pancho Villa, who was probably the foreman of the road crew, glanced around at his men, but they either shrugged or looked blank. "Sorry. Looks like we didn't."

They made her sit on the sidewalk, pillowed against a postbox, while their colleagues assisted Rick, his greater height and bulk meaning he had to shimmy over the gearstick, feeling his jeans catch on something before he stood straight.

He stretched, trying to pop the knots that had unaccountably appeared in his back, then he hurried to sit next to Kate, checking the cut above her left eye.

In the distance a siren screamed.

* * *

"Just what did you think you were doing?" Captain Victoria Gates had barely got out of the car before she was demanding explanations.

Kevin Ryan followed from the driver's side a pace slower, shrugging as Kate shot him a questioning look from where she was sitting on the edge of the open-doored ambulance, a blanket around her shoulders and a small dressing taped over her left eyebrow.

"Doing?" she asked, trying Castle's patented method of pretending innocence.

Gates wasn't fooled. "To get shot at."

"Castle and I were just out for a drive." She resisted the temptation to add 'sir'. "That's all."

"All?" Gates was angry, but her iron control was holding it in check, apart from the look in her eyes. "So people usually take pot shots at you when you're just 'out for a drive'?"

"It's New York."

"And that's not an answer."

Kate fidgeted as the EMT behind her checked her neck, moving her head carefully one side to the other. Finally satisfied he moved deeper into the ambulance, allowing Kate to say quietly, "And just because I've stopped carrying the badge doesn't mean people don't have scores to settle." She pushed the blanket off her shoulders. "In fact they might think this makes it easier."

Rick, joining Ryan, looked down at the Irish detective, his eyebrows raised.

Ryan shrugged. "Don't look at me," he murmured. "Gates got the call and next thing I knew I was driving."

"She doesn't look happy."

"That she doesn't. The way she was in the car, I'd have preferred Kerrigan."

The conversation by the ambulance wasn't getting any easier.

"If I find you've been working the case –"

"What case?" Kate stood up. "_My_ case? _My_ shooting? Because if you're talking about that, no, I haven't. But if I was it wouldn't be anything to do with you anymore, would it?"

Gates eyes widened, obviously not used to be talked to like that, but she held herself in check. "As a matter of fact I was talking about the death of Clive Sheldon. I've had the captain of the 14th on the line – he's not happy."

"And he told you to tell me to butt out?"

"Pretty much."

"I'm not a cop. Not for more than a week. And Megan Dalwood's decided it was suicide. He should be ecstatic."

"Beckett –"

"No." Kate was in her face, her finger pointing, a bare inch from poking. "No. You don't get to give me orders. Not now. I resigned, remember?"

"_My_ recollection of the events is fine."

"Then I think we're done." Kate gave her one last, hard look, then stalked away to see if the CSU team had been able to identify the bullet.

Gates turned on Rick. "Can't you control her?"

"Me?" Rick wanted to laugh, the question was so absurd. "Since when could I stop her doing what she wanted?"

"What have you got her into?"

Rick had been brought up to respect women, to be polite, mainly because he had vivid memories of a number of his alcoholic nannies relating stories of what they'd done to people who had been less than respectful, but even he found his temper close to breaking.

"Captain Gates," he said, slowly and clearly, in case she misunderstood, "Kate Beckett is her own woman. As much as you think this is all my fault, she's reacting to a crime that, as far as I can see, the police are ignoring. So excuse me if I stand with her and not you." He dipped his head once, then did exactly that, joining his partner by the car.

Gates opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, putting Ryan in mind of a goldfish, or perhaps one of those Japanese fighting fish, all antennas and sting. Then, without another word, she got back into her car, waiting for Ryan to join her.

"I ... just ..." Ryan held up a hand. "Give me a sec."

She glared at him, the one that should have melted steel, but didn't call him back.

He jogged towards his friends. "Beckett." They turned. "Are you okay?"

Kate nodded. "I'm fine. I've had worse."

"I know." He barely repressed the shudder.

"You know, nobody's asking if I'm okay," Rick said, knowing the memory that had assaulted all of them. "I know who my friends are," he added, reaching around to finger the tear in his jeans, just below his left buttock. "Second pair I've ruined on a case."

Ryan smiled a little. "I'm sure you can afford them." He went on quickly. "I don't have much time, but I've been looking for Fennimore Cooper."

Kate's glare wasn't quite the wattage of Gates', but close. "Kevin, I thought I told you –"

"Just listen, will you?" It was so unusual for Ryan to interrupt her that she shut up. "Victor thinks his son is dead, and he might as well be. He's in long term care after he fell off a building six months ago and broke his back."

"_Fell_ off a building?"

"He was higher than the Empire State. The EMTs that dealt with him said the drugs in his system were probably the only reason he survived at all."

"How come this wasn't in the records?"

"The hospital couldn't find any ID on him, and didn't think to run his prints, so he got put down as a John Doe. He was in a coma for a while, then when he did wake up he couldn't remember who he was. It was only a couple of weeks ago that he was able to tell them."

Kate nodded slowly. "Then I'd say his alibi was pretty solid."

"Pretty much." Ryan glanced back towards his car, where Gates was tapping her fingers on the door panel in a fast, staccato beat. "Did you get the licence of the car that ran you off the road?"

"No. Late model tan sedan. That was about it."

"I'll take a look at the traffic cams. See if I can't pull something."

"No." This time she was much firmer, putting her hand on his arm in emphasis. "No, Kevin. This is it. If you got suspended, worse, I'd ... no more."

"You're my friends." He looked from Kate to Rick and back again. "And someone just tried to kill you."

"I'd sort of noticed." She smiled grimly. "And that was a big mistake."

Rick saw her expression with a mix of pride and a sinking feeling in his stomach. This was a Kate Beckett he knew, the tenacious terrier of a woman, who wasn't going to let it go until it at least cried 'uncle'.

* * *

"Darlings, are you all right?" Martha rushed to them as Rick opened the door to the loft, Alexis not a step behind her.

"We're fine, mother," he assured her, letting Kate walk in front of him. "The rental car company weren't too pleased, but we sorted it out." Closing the door he added, "How did you ...?"

"Kevin Ryan called," Alexis said. "He thought we should know, in case we were worrying about where you were."

"That was thoughtful."

Martha fluttered around them, her bright clothes putting them both in mind of a bird of paradise. "This is all my fault."

"Your fault, Martha?" Kate asked.

"If I hadn't asked you to investigate, none of this would have happened."

"We don't know it was anything to do with Clive's death," Rick said, taking the line they'd agreed on the way home as he continued into the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee. "It's not like Kate hasn't annoyed people before."

Kate lowered herself to the couch, her back muscles protesting a little. "Thanks."

"It's true. You put a lot of bad guys away – it stands to reason there might be one or two who'd like a little payback."

"Well, this time they missed."

"It's nothing to joke about," Alexis insisted, walking around the counter so she could hug her father.

"No. Sorry." He tightened his arms around her.

Martha sat down next to Kate and took her hand. "I want you to stop."

"Stop?" Kate raised an eyebrow.

"Leave this alone." She glanced over at Rick then back . "You're not a police officer anymore. You can't call for ... for back-up. There's just my son. And neither of you are armed."

Rick very carefully didn't mention the .38 he had in a lock-box on the top shelf of his wardrobe. None of the three women in his life knew of its existence, something he'd managed to keep secret against his usual tendency to be far too sharing. He'd bought it a year ago, just after Kate had been shot, suddenly aware that nobody was really safe. Instead he said, "Mother, we're fine."

"Fine?" She gestured towards the dressing on Kate's forehead. "You call this 'fine'?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Alexis shook her head. "Dad, you could have _died_."

"I didn't. Kate and I are okay." He licked his lips. "Anything you can walk away from is fine. And we can't stop now."

Alexis didn't look convinced, and from the look on his mother's face, neither was Martha.

* * *

"Can we?"

"What?" Kate was staring at the murder board on the screen in the study.

"Stop now."

She turned to look at him, sitting at his desk having just updated the information. "Do you want to?"

"I ... don't know. I mean, this is personal now."

"And it wasn't with your mother?"

"Of course, but you ..." He took a deep breath. "I can't lose you, Kate. Not again."

She smiled for him. "You won't."

"Can you promise that?"

She could see he was being serious. "No. But I could get knocked down by a bus. Or you might choke on a mouthful of squirty cream. Or the building hit by a falling aircraft. We don't _know_. And neither of us have exactly lived our lives worrying about what _might_ happen."

"No. I get that."

"Besides, if we do stop, someone's going to get away with murder."

He stood up and joined her, his eyes roaming across the suspects on the screen as he tried to contain his concern with other matters. "It's pretty bare."

"Which should make it easy."

"Only it doesn't, does it?"

She sighed. "No."

"I mean, Victor's out, unless he's a damn good liar and has all the nurses fooled."

"Including Amanda Acherman." She gazed at him, no expression on her face but saying so much.

"Okay, yes, I would have made a play for her. Before. But not now."

"Good to hear it."

"Anyway ..." He elongated the word. "Fen is bed-ridden too ... Hey, we should let Ms Acherman know. They could have adjoining rooms."

"Concentrate, Castle."

"Right. That sort of leaves some anonymous drug dealer or Matt Sheldon."

"And his mother."

"Really?"

Kate stepped forward and tapped the grieving widow's picture on the board. "The first suspect in a case is always the spouse. Proximity, if nothing else."

"Kate, Grace is a classic Hamptons wife. She doesn't do much beyond sit on charity boards and have lunch with her friends."

"We haven't looked into her alibi."

"What for?" Rick shook his head. "We don't even know how the nicotine got into Clive's system, except it had to be within an hour of his death. And I seem to recall my mother saying Grace wasn't even in the city that day."

"Still, I think we should check." She rolled her head on her neck.

"You okay?"

"A bit sore."

Rick knew it was more than that – his own body was sending him reminders of the accident, so he knew she was probably understating. Crossing behind her he put his hands on her shoulders and began to massage, her little moan of relief telling him he'd found the right spot. "You know, you're as bad as my mother. Worse. You heard what the EMT said. You should have gone to the hospital."

"I wasn't knocked out, Castle."

"Then why didn't you answer me? In the car? Damn it, Kate, I yelled your name."

"I know. I heard. I just ... needed a few seconds."

"Do you know that it was like? What I thought?" His hands tightened involuntarily.

"Castle, I –"

"Rick! My name's Rick!" He knew it was delayed shock making him suddenly angry, but for once he couldn't stop it. He turned her around to face him. "Is that so hard to remember?"

"I know your name. And I am trying. Honestly. But it took me almost six years to call Ryan and Esposito by their first names, and I still can't do it all the time." She looked into his blue eyes, and had to smile. "I'm sorry. I'll try harder."

"I ... No. _I'm_ sorry. And I shouldn't be mad at you." He dipped his head and kissed her softly. Her hands came up to rest on his back, and they were silent for a long moment.

Eventually she pulled back enough to say, "This isn't helping the case."

"It's helping me." Still, he grinned and let her go. "You know, we need to see that book. Clive's memoires."

"Can Gina help?"

"I don't know that Black Pawn got a copy. Gina certainly didn't seem to think so."

"But does any publishing house agree to put out a book they haven't at least seen a chapter or two of?"

"Well, no, but –"

"If Sheldon had a contract, maybe Gina could persuade Grace to let her see any manuscript."

"Kate, you do realise that means asking her for a favour, don't you?"

"She was your wife."

"Was, Kate. _Was_. And we didn't exactly part on the best of terms. Either times."

"Then there's another alternative." Kate went behind her own desk and sat down, steepling her fingers in front of her lips.

"There is?" Rick started to perch on the corner, then thought better of it, a picture of himself and the table collapsing in an undignified heap in his mind, and sat down in the easy chair instead.

"Grace Sheldon. If anyone knows where a copy is, it would be her."

"Now, I _know_ she won't want to talk to me."

"Then I'll go and see her. It will give me the chance to check her out, too. See if I think she's capable of murder." She tapped her fingers on her chin thoughtfully.

Alexis leaned in the study doorway. "Have you two stopped arguing?"

Rick smiled at his daughter. "Yes. And thank you for giving us the space."

"You'll have a lot more when I go to Columbia."

He shuddered theatrically. "Don't remind me."

"Anyway, Gram says dinner's ready."

"She cooked? With one hand?" His mind skittered nervously over the possibilities.

"_Antonelli's_. It just arrived."

Rick laughed and stood up, hold out his hand to Kate. "Shall we?"

"I'm not really hungry."

"We ordered some of those little pastry cases filled with slivers of beef cooked in his special sauce," Alexis put in.

Kate licked her lips, making Rick think of other things than food. "Then I could be persuaded."

* * *

Her fingers were losing their grip. One by one they were slipping off the ledge, and she knew she was going to fall. She tried not to look down but her eyes kept being dragged to the concrete twenty stories below. Not that it mattered how far down it was – she couldn't hold on much longer and any moment her body was going to lie broken and shattered, brain matter smashed into the cracks of the alley.

She tried to call out, but no matter how loudly she shouted her voice was nothing more than a whisper in the hurricane that was the blood thudding in her ears. Nobody was going to come. The city was empty, devoid of life, and soon she was going to join it.

Her right hand gave up, dropping to her side like it was made of lead, and try as hard as she could to lift it, to take hold again, it wouldn't move.

She looked at her left, the white knuckles, and she screamed his name, knowing he wasn't there. Her index finger lifted against her will then the middle, the ring ... and she was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Fall ... Kate sat up in bed, her hands gripping the sheet as if her life depended on it.

Rick, lying next to her, muttered something about not getting up yet, then managed to surface enough to ask, "You okay?"

"B ... bathroom," she stammered, unpeeling her hands from the linen by sheer force of will. "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Spare toilet paper's under the sink," he said, yawning, then sank back into sleep.

She wiped at the perspiration on her forehead and wondered if his dreams were ever less than gentle. Getting to her feet carefully so as not to disturb him, she picked up one of the robes on the chair and walked quietly into the living area. As much as she'd told him she needed the bathroom, peeing was not on the agenda. She might throw up, but she could do that over the sink if need be.

The apartment was in darkness, but she knew her way around it enough now to find the couch and drop onto it.

Putting her head back she closed her eyes, but the dream was still there. This wasn't the first time she'd been plagued by nightmares – the first really bad ones were after her mother had died but she'd worked through them. Then when Reese was killed, and her own shooting ... they'd been bad, and the latter had only really stopped once she was talking to her therapist. She sighed, and wondered if this new one was going to be as difficult to get rid of.

"What is it?"

She looked over at Rick, standing scratching his chest. He wore only a pair of pyjama bottoms, the old-fashioned kind that had a string tie to hold them up. In this case the tie wasn't done up properly and they were threatening to slip down over his hips.

"I'm fine."

"You know, I'm beginning to hate that word. _Fine._"

She smiled. "Did your mother buy you those?"

He glanced down at the pyjamas. "Alexis. I think."

"They must love you."

"They think I shouldn't wander around my own apartment at night stark naked." He smiled and joined her on the couch, putting on the light on the table next to them. "So ... fine?" He ran his finger down her cheek.

Even in this light he could see the faint yellowing of the bruises on her face where her would-be killer had beaten her up, pretty convincingly. During the day she covered them successfully with make-up, but at night she wasn't worried about him seeing them. They were fading rapidly, as were the ones on her body where he'd punched and kicked her, but it didn't stop him wanting to kill the bastard every time he saw them.

"Bad dream."

"Any particular one?"

"Not really."

"Kate."

She glared at him, but his gaze was stronger. "I ... it was ..." She pulled herself together. "You remember the scene in _Vertigo_ when James Stewart is hanging off a building?"

He understood. "It was just a dream. I get them. Every so often."

"You do?"

"It used to be things happening to Alexis. Wandering off, being kidnapped ... often it was just me searching for her and not being able to find her. I used to wake in a cold sweat."

"And now?"

"You. Mostly you."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He should have stopped there, but his mouth had other ideas. "Why did he leave you alive, Kate?"

"Who?"

"Maddox."

"I was hanging off a building, Castle. About to plunge to my death."

"Except you didn't. Ryan and the others were there in time, and they pulled you up."

"I know. I remember."

"All he had to do was ... step on your fingers. Shoot you with your own gun. You were a sitting ... a hanging target. All he had to do was make sure. But he didn't." Rick licked his lips as if they were dry. "It's only Bond villains and Dr Evil who leave their victims with an out."

"Aren't you glad he did?"

"I'm ecstatic. But a year ago he shot you, Kate. Tried his damndest that you didn't leave that cemetery alive. Why did he baulk at finishing you off on that building? What changed?"

"Montgomery's files. The deal."

"He didn't pull you up, either."

Kate shook her head. "I don't really know what you're getting at."

"What did he say to you? Before he left?"

She couldn't help it – she shivered slightly. "He said _we know exactly who we're up against_. He meant me, Rick. He was taunting _me_."

"No. Well, yes, but maybe not. You said he took a photo out of Montgomery's wedding album. If we're right, they know who Roy's friend was, and I don't give much for his chances, not if Maddox is after him. But what if he isn't?"

"What?"

Rick shook his head as if he was trying to clear cobwebs. "I don't know. I just ... real bad guys don't walk away with the job half finished."

"I have."

"You're not a bad guy."

"No, but ... I killed the man who murdered my mother. Dick Coonan. And I don't have any new leads." She put up her hand to stall him. "And right now I don't care." She closed the gap between them, moving even closer so their thighs touched. "I thought I was going to die, Rick. And all I could think about was not seeing you again."

"I'm flattered, but –"

"My mother's case ... isn't important to me anymore."

He looked into her eyes, then pulled her into his arms. "Oh, Kate. But it will be. One day. I know you, remember."

She ran her hands up his naked back, feeling his pulse under the warm skin. "If that's what happens then we'll face it together." He didn't speak, just held her. "Castle?"

He sighed, his breath moving the hair around her face, and she knew he was thinking about the fact that it was that very case that had driven what could have been the final wedge between them.

When he finally spoke his words were so quiet she wasn't sure she'd heard them right. "If you died ... I don't know what I'd do."

"Rick –"

He carried on over her objections. "Before, I thought I could walk away. Turn how I felt off, not watch you self-destruct like that. But I was wrong. Even more wrong now, after we ... now. And I will do anything ... _anything _... to keep you alive."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

She pulled back enough to look into his blue eyes, not surprised to see them shining with tears. "Even if I ask you not to?"

"Not even then. Not again, Kate. I can't lose you again."

"Then ..." She knew he was waiting for her to be angry with him. "You'd better distract me."

His brows shot up. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

"Oh, I don't know." She smiled. "Surprise me."


	14. Chapter 14

Alexis cornered him in his bedroom the next morning just after he'd finished dressing and as he was brushing his hair back into place.

"Dad."

"What is it, sweetheart?" He ducked down enough to check his hairline in the mirror, turning his head first one way then the other.

"We have to talk."

"About what?"

"All ... this."

Rick put the brush down on the table and turned to look at her. "Which particular all are you thinking about?"

Alexis, looking far more serious than an eighteen year old should, indicated the unmade bed. "This. Everything."

He made an educated guess. "You're worried about me."

"Of course I am!" Her red hair seemed to flame. "You've been shot at, nearly blown up, held hostage ... and you're only a writer!"

"Only?" he put in but she was on a roll.

"Detective Beckett _was_ shot, _and_ blown up ... how much closer to it do you want to be? And now, this case ... someone tried to kill you, Dad!"

Rick pulled his daughter into his arms. "Alexis, nothing is going to happen to me."

"You can't promise that!"

She was stiff in his embrace as a similar conversation from the evening before replayed in his mind, with Kate's assertion that none of them knew what was going to happen in the future. He turned it around, seeing it from Alexis's point of view.

"No," he agreed slowly. "I can't promise that. But I can promise that I'll be careful."

She pushed him away to look into his face. "Careful? Someone shot at you!"

"Were you worrying about this all night?"

"Dad."

He cancelled the smile that was threatening. "Yes. Someone shot at us. He didn't hit us. And now we know there's someone out there with a gun we'll be extra vigilant. I'll even wear my vest, okay?"

"Dad, it's nothing to joke about."

"No, you're right. And I'm sorry." He pulled her close again, wondering how long it would be until she didn't want a hug from her Daddy once in a while, and was pleased when she returned it this time. "But I get the feeling there's more to it than just my welfare."

She stilled. "Why would you say that?"

"Because I know sub-text when I hear it."

"There's nothing else." She let go and moved away towards the door, but turned back, contradicting herself. "It's just ... you and Detective Beck ... Kate."

"Me and Kate." This time he allowed the smile to form. "Feeling left out, are you? Don't worry – you'll always be my special girl."

"That's nice, Dad, but ..."

"But what? Sweetie, what is it?"

"Dad ..." She bit her lip. "Are you doing this just because I'm going to college?"

"You mean because I'm afraid I might be lonely?" When she nodded he wanted to laugh, but knew that wasn't at all the right thing to do. Instead he took her hands in his. "Alexis, I promise, this has nothing to do with you going to Columbia. I love Kate, and I want us to be together."

His daughter blushed, as if hearing her father declaring his affection for someone else was embarrassing. "Are ... are you going to get married?"

"I ... it's early days."

"Do you want to?"

"Yes."

"I'm asking because you wanted that vintage motorised skateboard and it's never been out of the hall closet."

"That's not quite the same thing."

"Isn't it? Wanting something because you couldn't have it, and, when you could, finding the having wasn't enough?"

He felt an odd mixture of pride and exasperation. "You think that because Kate and I have ... that I'll want to go on to the next thing?"

"No. Well, maybe." She looked like the little girl she used to be. "I don't want you to get hurt, Dad."

"Hey, me neither. But Kate isn't a skateboard, motorised or not, and I'm not going to change how I feel about her."

"But things _do_ change. People fall out of love, go to college, grow up ..."

"Hey, I promise that's never going to happen. The growing up part, I mean. And as for the falling out of love ... I've loved you for eighteen years, and that shows no sign of changing."

"I'm your daughter, you're supposed to."

He pulled her back into his arms, wanting to rest his chin on her head but finding she was too tall now. "And I promise you won't lose me. I'll be around until you've got kids of your own, and even then I'll be telling them wildly inappropriate stories and giving them parcels of land on the moon, just along the crater to mine."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Good." She squeezed hard and let go, this time hurrying out of the bedroom so he didn't see the tears in her eyes, but adding over her shoulder, "And wear your vest."

He grinned. Going back to the dressing table he picked up the small silver dish that held the detritus from his pockets from the night before and tipped them into his hand.

"Alexis telling you off?" Kate had stepped silently into the room.

"She cares about me." He tossed a couple of crumpled receipts into the bin, but the rest he thrust back into his pocket.

"She loves you."

He turned to look at her. "I know."

"Do you _want_ to stop this?"

"You heard?"

"Most of it."

Rick sat down on the bed, thinking for a moment. When he looked up his eyes were sober. "Kate, the reason I started following you around in the first place was because a crime was going unpunished. Yes, I know that sounds grandiose and self-aggrandising, but it's true. Alison Tisdale's murderer was going to get away with it. And yes, I know, I looked on it as a game, an easy way of getting the plot for my next book. But I've worked with you for quite some time now, and that's changed. I want the ... the satisfaction of having the bad guy put in jail." He glanced towards the open door to his wardrobe, the zombie costume just visible in the corner. "And yes, it can still be fun."

Kate shook her head. "You really are a big kid, aren't you?"

"'Fess up, Kate. It's what you love about me."

"Quite possibly." She walked to the window and gazed out. "Don't you ever wonder about the good we do?"

"Not sure."

"Not sure we do any good, or not sure you know what I'm talking about?"

He smiled. "Both."

"That's the point. _Do_ we do any good? I mean, in the grand scheme of things?" She nodded towards the city. "No matter what we do, what we did ... people still break the law. They steal, they hurt, they kill ... if we can't stop them then is what we do even worth it?"

"Ah."

"Ah ... what?" She turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

"A wise man once said that if nothing we do matters, then anything we _can_ do matters."

"What?"

"I think he meant that if we can't change the world then it's the very act of trying that's important."

"That's quite deep." She looked thoughtful. "So what he meant was that we stop it getting worse?"

"Probably. But I think he was being more profound than that." He stood up, stretching. "Or maybe he was just trying to say that it's better to light a candle than curse the darkness."

She laughed unexpectedly. "Who was this deep, philosophical thinker?"

"Oh, just some guy on a TV show I used to love. It doesn't make it less than true, though."

"No. No, it doesn't." She picked up her jacket.

"Where are you going?" he asked, surprised.

"To see Grace Sheldon. See what good I can do."

"Without breakfast?" He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was past nine.

"I'm not hungry. Besides, you have to call your ex-wife." She shrugged into her coat and walked out into the living room.

"Do you really think this is a good idea?" he asked, following her.

"What, you calling Gina?"

"No. And yes."

She turned to smile at him. "You were right. We need to see that manuscript if we can."

"_If_ it exists."

"Granted, if it exists. Otherwise Clive Sheldon's death is going to be put down as suicide, and we won't find out who shot at us." She reached up and kissed him on the lips. "I won't be long."

"I could come and sit in the car."

"Get calling, Castle," Kate said, snagging the rental keys from the hall table.

"Kate, darling, are you going anywhere near my school?" Martha asked, heading down the stairs.

"I could be persuaded."

Rick raised his eyebrows. "Are you going out too?"

"Of course, Richard," Martha said, reaching the floor and adjusting the light pashmina around her shoulders, using the end to cover the cast on her wrist. "First rehearsals are this afternoon, and I have a lot of planning to do."

"Already?"

"There's no point in letting the grass grow under our feet. And everyone is available."

"And can you?" Rick asked. "I mean, you're not exactly one hundred percent."

"That's why I'm helping," Alexis put in, carrying what appeared to be a heavy carpet bag with both hands down the stairs, almost but not quite dropping it on the parquet.

"What have you got in there?" Rick wanted to know.

"Oh, just a few props," Martha said, waving her undamaged hand airily. "I'll bring them back after."

The temptation to go through the bag was almost too great, but seeing Kate smiling at their antics made him ask, "Anything I should up the insurance on?"

"Don't be a sourpuss, kiddo."

"I'll go and start the car," Kate put in. "Alexis, give me that bag and you can help your grandmother."

"I don't need help." Martha's laser gaze turned on her instead.

"I don't recall suggesting you did."

"You're going to talk about me, aren't you?" Rick asked, a resigned note in his voice.

"Of course." Kate kissed his cheek then added, "I'll be downstairs." Swiping the bag from the floor and only giving a gentle 'oof' at the weight, she strode out.

"Be nice," Rick begged his mother. "I've only just got her to like me."

"I'll keep your juicier secrets just that," Martha promised, checking her purse as best she could. "Richard, do you have my phone? I don't think you gave it back to me."

Sidetracked slightly from the stories he knew she could tell he said, "Uh, no, I didn't." He hurried back into his bedroom, appearing a moment later with it in his hand. "Here."

"Thank you." She slipped it into her bag.

"And I think this is yours too." He held out something else.

Martha looked at the mouth spray on the palm of his hand. "That's not mine, dear."

"Are you sure?" He stared at it. "The nurse said it was in your pocket with your cell."

Her eyes narrowed fractionally as she thought, then her confusion cleared. "The theatre. I found it on the stage."

He looked up in surprise. "When?"

"That day. It was rolled under one of the tabs." She shrugged elegantly. "A lot of actors use them to keep their mouths fresh – although I've known a good number who should have and didn't." Her nose wrinkled from the phantom halitosis.

"Are you sure? About when you found it?"

"Richard, I'm not senile yet. It was the day I got hurt." The pashmina slipped from her cast and she pulled it back into place, tucking it into the sling. "Come on, Alexis. The early bird is waiting, and so's Kate."

"Isn't anyone going to have breakfast?" Rick asked, aware he sounded like he was whining just a little.

"Coffee's brewed," Alexis pointed out.

"And we've already eaten," Martha added. "While you and Kate were having a lie in." She twinkled at him.

Considering what they'd been doing, and what his mother apparently _knew_ they'd been doing, Rick wasn't surprised at the blush that threatened to rush up his chest and burn across his cheeks. "Maybe I should get a lock put on that door."

"That might not be a bad idea."

Alexis picked up another bag from next to the couch, smaller and flatter than the other, eager to get away from discussions of her father's love life. "I thought we were going?"

"Your laptop?" Rick asked. "Is this a modern-day production?"

"No." Alexis laughed. "I'll need something to do whilst Gram rehearses."

"I hope it's not school work."

"No." She lifted her chin. "Actually, I'm writing a book."

"Ahhh. A chip off the old block." He had to grin. "And what genre? A crime novel? Or maybe a love story. Vampires." He warmed to his theme. "Or maybe a vampire who falls in love and solves crimes. No, wait, somebody's already done that."

"It's autobiographical. About a teenager who has to be an adult to her father."

"Hey!"

"Don't worry, Dad. I'll change the names to protect the guilty." She kissed him on the cheek and hurried out of the front door.

Martha laughed lightly as she followed her into the hall. "Perhaps she is yours after all," leaving Rick standing open-mouthed.

* * *

After two cups of coffee, one unfinished bowl of cereal and a handful of leftovers from the night before, Rick still hadn't got up the courage to call his ex. Not that courage was needed – more like a full suit of armour and a flame thrower. The mental image of himself wearing just such a costume, and a dragon with Gina's face, made him smile just as there was a knock on the door.

For a moment he didn't move, surprised that Eduardo hadn't called up to announce a visitor. Which could only mean ...

"Gina."

His ex-wife stood in the doorway, her sleeveless cream blouse in perfect complement to her cream linen skirt and her cream leather open-toed heels. Even her nail polish was champagne.

"Rick."

"What a pleasant surprise." He couldn't have sounded less honest if he'd tried, although the shock was perfectly genuine. "I was just thinking about you."

"Nothing good, I'm sure."

"I know I'm not late."

"No. Although I live in the vain hope that one day you might actually get the chapters to me early."

He had to smile a little. "You never know."

"But that's not why I'm here." She glanced past him. "Can I come in?"

He glanced towards the dirty dishes still sitting on the counter, then to his study door, glad that the murder screen was currently dark. "I'm kind of in the middle of something here."

"So I can see." Her eyes had followed his. "Rick, I'm not going to do this standing in the hall."

He recognised the look on her face all too well. "Yes. Of course. Come in." He stepped back, the stray thought that he shouldn't really invite vampires into his home crossing his mind and making his lips twitch, although in her case he was more than a few years too late.

She stepped across the threshold and turned around. "Kate not at home?"

"Is that it?" He sighed. "You wanted to come in and see if she's made any changes?"

"She wouldn't be a woman if she didn't."

"It's been two weeks, Gina. Not even that. I don't think even you could have done much in two weeks." He paused. "No – I take that back. You started to change things before I'd even finished the proposal."

"In a balloon. On a freezing February day."

"Believe me, if I'd listened to the omens I'd have saved half my money and most of my sanity."

She smiled coolly at him. "I love you too."

He glanced pointedly at his watch. "Gina, as much fun as this is, sparring with you, what do you want?"

"As a matter of fact I'm here to do you a favour."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really." She opened her purse, a large cream leather pouch that Rick recognised as being designer-made and hideously expensive, at least when he purchased one for his mother, at her request, for her last birthday. He wondered briefly at the advisability of telling Gina she and Martha had the same tastes, but erred on the side of living longer. Instead he watched her pull a manila envelope from inside, presenting it to him as if she'd made it appear by magic.

He eyed it warily. "It can't be divorce papers. Or should I dunk it in water first?"

Rather than the catty remark he expected, she smiled. "It's the manuscript you asked about. Clive Sheldon's. Or rather, the first three chapters and notes on the rest."

Now he really was amazed. Not only Gina turning up before he had a chance to call her, but with the very thing he needed. "Really?" He grabbed it and tore it open. "I thought you said you didn't have it."

"I twisted a few arms." She smiled, and he could imagine her doing exactly that. "It's what he gave Black Pawn originally, the reason we offered to publish. It's not that bad, actually. A little florid, but that could easily have been put right.

_Comings & Goings._ That was the title, printed in Arial 24 Bold, if he was any judge, with the subheading of _A Life in the Import/Export Business_ slightly smaller underneath. He winced. "And the title?"

"Would probably have been changed. And someone who's called books _Heat Wave _and _Naked Heat_ shouldn't throw stones."

"Point taken." He clutched the manuscript to his chest. "Thanks, Gina."

"I'm not all bad, you know."

"You mean like Jessica Rabbit."

"What?" Her perfectly plucked eyebrows twitched.

"In the cartoon. _Who Framed Roger Rabbit_. She says she's not bad, she was just drawn that way."

Gina pushed her hand down her cream skirt, smoothing non-existent creases. "I can relate to that. Although your obsession with popular culture doesn't seem to be going away."

He smiled. "One thing we could never agree on."

"Rick, if it had been only that we might still have been married." She lifted her chin in the way he remembered. "Anyway, I have to go. I have a potential author to interview."

"Putting the fear of Gina into him?"

Her smile widened, showing her teeth. "Of course."

She didn't say goodbye, just sashayed past him and was gone in a waft of Paco Rabanne.

Rick gazed after her. Maybe there was hope for a friendship after all. And just perhaps she'd delivered a motive for murder, too. Closing the door he crossed to the couch, already turning the first page of _Comings & Goings_ before he sat down.

The pages were printed, suggesting there might be a fuller copy somewhere on Clive's computer, a plastic wallet attached to the back full of photos, probably intended to be used within the text, and it didn't take long to realise Gina had been right. The writing wasn't bad at all, but Clive seemed addicted to hyperbole. He used a whole page to describe what he wore the day he graduated, including all the reasons for his eventual choice, but a good working relationship with an editor could have produced a solid book. It might not top the NY Times bestseller list, but it had a chance of developing a following, particularly as the buying public could be pretty fickle in their tastes.

Rick skimmed the first two of the chapters that had been fully fleshed, but found little beyond Clive's memories of his childhood and college years, including meeting Grace for the first time and being thought not good enough by her father. It was the third, though, that made him sit up. Whether Clive had intended to make the jump forward in time or if this was just to show there was more to his life than banalities was probably never going to be answered, but this chapter dealt with the death of Nicky Turturro.

His heart pounding, Rick began to devour the words.

* * *

Kate looked up at the large white town house. Five storeys high and a basement underneath, she could probably fit her apartment in there ten times over, and even Castle's loft would be lost inside.

Rick. Rick, not Castle. She shook her head at herself, sighing heavily. She'd told him the truth when she said she was trying to call him by his first name, and actually managed it quite a lot, but there were times when his surname tripped easier off the tongue. Although technically it should be _Rodgers_ that was doing the tripping.

Richard Alexander Rodgers. Very musical. No wonder he changed it to Richard Edgar Castle, although as far as Kate was concerned he should be glad his mother hadn't given in to her first inclination to call him Nicholas.

Nicholas Castle. Nick Castle. No. That didn't work. He didn't look like a Nick. Or a Rick, for that matter, at least those times she'd been tempted to call him something else entirely. And in all honesty it was easier to call him Castle, just in case things went south.

She caught sight of herself in the rear view mirror and almost laughed. Her therapist would have a field day with this, she considered. As far as she'd got, as close to accepting everything that had happened, she still couldn't take that last final little step, whether it was calling Rick all the time by his first name or moving in with him. Still, it was early days.

More to the point, this wasn't getting the job done. She was procrastinating, feeling the lack of her partner in the seat next to her, making unsuitable comments, as well as the lack of a gun at her hip, but somehow knowing the fake PI badge Cast ... Rick had made her was nestled securely inside her jacket was oddly reassuring.

Pulling herself together she took the lip gloss from her pocket and swept it over her mouth, running her fingers through her hair before getting out of the car to go and knock on the door.


	15. Chapter 15

As Kate waited in the hall for the butler to come back she had to smile. Rick had mentioned the manservant, Bingham by name, when he went over what he could remember of the household for her.

"_Mother always said Clive Sheldon refused to actually live on Park Avenue, claiming it was full of pretentious old money, people who'd never had to work a day in their lives, but when you think about it his house is so close a sparrow could spit that far."_

"_A sparrow?"_ She'd looked at him askance.

"_Poetic licence. And Bingham runs the place with a rod of iron."_

"_Who's Bingham?"_

"_General factotum. Been with the family for years, man and bootboy. Devoted to Grace. In fact, he might make a good candidate for Matt's father, if it wasn't Nicky Turturro."_

"_Don't look so smug. The wind might change and you'll stay like that."_

Still, Kate couldn't quite imagine this dry, very proper man in the throes of passion and was quite glad of the fact. What she could imagine, though, was the fuss if they found out she wasn't a detective anymore. It wasn't as if she'd actually told Bingham that she was a cop, just that the NYPD still had a few questions for Grace Sheldon, and if he'd assumed she was their representative, well, that wasn't her problem. So technically the law wasn't broken, just bent a little. Not that it felt right.

Her cell vibrated in her pocket, and as she pulled it free she wondered idly if this was retribution. No. Only Esposito.

"Espo. What've you got?"

"_Castle's pals knew some but not all,"_ Esposito said.

"Tell me."

"_Matthew Sheldon is up to his ass in debt, and owes money to some pretty bad dudes."_

"Can you be more specific as to the dudes?"

"_Oh, the kind that'd think breaking both your legs was just an incentive to cough up."_

"How much money are we talking about?"

"_Somewhere in the region of 250K."_

A quarter of a million dollars. She gave a low whistle. "For that kind of liability I'd hazard a guess at gambling."

"_On the nose. He's sold pretty much everything he owns to get the cash to try and bet his way out of trouble, and lost. My sources say he's got a week to come up with the cash or he's toast."_

"Which would be a really good motive for murder, except his father's death doesn't benefit him in any way." Kate's mouth tightened.

"_I'd agree, but apparently Matt's been promising the money's coming, and he paid off fifty grand as a gesture of goodwill, which is how come he ain't lying somewhere bleeding right now."_

A door opened further down the large hall and Bingham stepped into view.

Kate lowered her voice. "Can you keep digging?"

"_Sure. You okay?"_

"I'm fine. Call me later, okay?"

"_Will do."_

Kate disconnected and looked up.

Bingham stopped a respectful distance away. "Mrs Sheldon is currently with her attorney," he said smoothly. "But she has asked if you will wait for her in the yellow drawing room and she will be with you shortly."

"Going over her husband's will?"

"I couldn't say, Madam. But if you'd like to follow me ..." He led the way up the stairs to the first floor. "And I would ask that you turn off your cellular phone," he added over his shoulder. "Mrs Sheldon finds them disruptive."

Kate couldn't see his face, but from the expression in his voice he was looking down his nose at all technology. "Sure," she said, turning it to silent.

"Off, Madam," Bingham said, not turning. "If you wouldn't mind."

Now Kate was surprised. "How did ..."

"Mrs Sheldon has a selection of rare orchids in the house, Madam, and she feels the radiation from such phones can affect their growth."

"But ..." Then she saw her reflection in the glass of the large portraits hung on the wall all the way up the stairs and along the corridor, and she had to stifle a smile. "I doubt much gets past you, does it, Mr Bingham?"

"No, Madam. Very little." He led her towards a set of double doors at the end.

Shaking her head Kate switched her phone off as she stepped into what was, yes, the yellow drawing room, the striped silk wallpaper putting her in mind of a cool lemon sorbet. Sunlight filtered through high windows strung with long net curtains that swept the floor, but even as she watched a cloud passed across the sun and she shivered involuntarily.

Bingham stayed in the doorway behind her. "Would you like some tea, Madam?"

Kate was about to decline, to say that she wouldn't as she was on duty. Except she wasn't. "That would be nice."

"Very good, Madam." The doors closed and she was alone with the fine furniture and what appeared to be more than a hundred photo frames covering every flat surface, Sheldon family members staring back at her.

* * *

Rick sat back, disgusted. Nothing. Nothing they didn't already know, beyond the fact that Clive had discovered Victor standing over Nicky's body and, in his own words, told his partner to hand himself in to the police. Victor had refused, apparently talking him around, and even giving him the gun to dispose of, since it was his in the first place. It was only the fact that it was cold outside and he'd still got his gloves on that preserved Victor's prints.

Not that Clive had tossed the gun, suggesting that he had had a premonition he might come under suspicion, and needing to keep it just in case, and when that happened he arranged for it to be 'discovered'. Victor was right – Clive was an accessory after the fact, and most definitely broke the law when he paid for one of his girlfriends to say he'd been with her all night, but he got away with it.

Rick exhaled heavily through his nose. No doubt there was literary license involved, and quite probably downright lies, but most of what Clive had written he could believe. No wonder he hadn't started to write this until he knew he was dying – it didn't portray him in a good light at all.

Neither, though, did it supply a motive for Clive's own murder. Morally he was on the dark side of grey, and admitted in passing to the other illegal imports they made as the reason Nicky died, but he named no names, and there was nothing that could identify the high players in the drug scene. Rick could speculate all he wanted that these same players might have been concerned the publishers would insist on that detail being filled in to make it more salacious – if Clive had wanted to be that specific, he would have been.

The rest of the book, as Gina said, was really notes, forty pages or so on what Clive had intended each chapter to cover, with odd paragraphs here and there he'd obviously worked on. How he met Grace was one of them, detailing when he first saw her at her father's perfumery, wondering how a woman could still look stunning wearing a white lab coat. Another was about the day Emily, the Sheldon's daughter, died, and this was more fully formed, running to a couple of pages by itself, and as Rick read his shoulders tightened and he sat up straighter.

* * *

From what Kate could see the most modern photos were arranged on the piano under the windows, mostly of Grace Sheldon at various charity functions, standing close to but not touching her husband in less than a handful. A man of Rick's age featured in a number, including one of him holding an Oscar, so it was safe to assume this was Matt Sheldon.

Older pictures clustered on the four Chinese lacquer cabinets against the walls, one of them devoted to snaps of a young girl with blonde pigtails, mostly taken of her laughing, others doing nothing more remarkable than eating an ice cream or playing with a puppy. Even Kate could feel the tug at her heart as she realised this had to be Emily.

She shook her head slowly. As she knew to her cost, to lose any family member was traumatic, terrible, but to lose a child must be the worst thing in the world.

The doors swung open behind her, and Bingham stood in a pool of calm, a silver tray in his hands. "Madam?"

* * *

Rick licked dry lips, going back over the narrative again. Contrary to what he'd told everyone about the day of the tragedy, Clive and Emily weren't alone on his boat. He had someone with him, an unnamed girlfriend, and he was down in the cabin with her when Emily went overboard. It was some time before he checked for her, becoming more frantic and distraught as he realised she was missing, even going so far as to jump into the ocean to make sure she wasn't just hiding under the boat. He called the Coastguard, but not before putting his married girlfriend ashore.

'_I have nothing to excuse what I did, except a certainty that Emily was gone, and there was no profit in causing a scandal, or even greater heartache to Grace.'_

A flash of anger bordering on hatred burned through Rick for a man who put scandal above his wife's feelings, at least on the page. As his mother had said, Grace had never been happy since the death of her daughter, and now Clive tried to justify his actions like this. To think his mother had had an affair with this –

The phone ringing interrupted his chain of thought, and he reached out to pick it up.

"Hello?"

"_Rick, it's Lanie."_

"Hey." He could imagine the ME in her scrubs, looking most delectable. "How goes the world down in the morgue?"

"_Peachy. Is Kate there?"_

"No, she's out. Why?"

"_I wanted to make sure she was okay after yesterday."_

"How did you find out?"

"_Javi told me. Last night."_

"Really. And what, exactly, were you two up to at that precise moment in time?"

"_None of your business."_

"That's why I'd like to know."

"_Anyone ever tell you what curiosity did to the cat?"_

"All the time. And I was with her, you know. Don't you want to know how _I _am?"

"_You know that cat we just talked about? I think you've got the same nine lives."_

He chuckled. "I wouldn't be surprised. Anyway, why don't you call her cell?"

"_It's switched off, just going to voicemail."_

"She's probably busy." Interviewing Grace Sheldon, he thought but didn't add. "I'll get her to call you."

"_You do that. Oh, and I had something else I wanted to tell you both."_

"I'm all ears."

"_I noticed. Harry O'Connor popped in to pick up his stuff, and he told me he'd forgotten to mention something."_

"Oh? What?"

"_A smell. He said he thought it was odd but as it was so faint he thought he'd imagined it. Only since I was so pushy ..."_

"You? Pushy? Never."

"_Too late for gallantry, Castle. Anyway, he said it was a sort of minty smell, first in Sheldon's mouth, then when he was checking his lungs."_

"Mouthwash?"

"_Harry didn't think so. It had a medicinal odour to it."_

"Some heart conditions use a spray under the tongue, aren't they?" He knew this because he'd had one of his characters in _Storm Rising_ have a near-fatal heart attack, only warded off by a timely dose, and Clive was sick. Heart sick.

"_Some."_

"Would they be minty?"

"_Not usually. That's why Harry wanted to mention it."_ There was a noise at her end like a door opening. _"I've got to go. Tell Kate to call me as soon as she gets back."_

"Sure. No problem."

Rick hung up, but his mind was already somewhere else, making a connection. Mint. Mouthwash. Mouth spray. Dropping the manuscript onto the couch he got to his feet, heading for the kitchen counter.

It was still there, just a small tube waiting to be claimed. He picked it up, turning it over and over in his fingers as his mind went to work on it.

Lots of people used mouth sprays, and it wasn't like there was any indication it belonged to Clive in the first place. And even if it did, maybe he just wanted nice fresh breath.

Wait a minute. There was something along the side. He peered closer. What he'd taken to be an unlabelled mouth spray wasn't. He could feel the remains of paper stuck to it, and holding it under the light he could just make out the name _Dr Herriman_, and something that looked like the word _Pharmacy_ just beneath.

He pondered what to do for just a moment, then sprayed some into the palm of his hand. Definitely minty, and very strong. So it might be exactly what it purported to be, decanted into a convenient container, although that didn't make sense. They were sold just like this in any drugstore or supermarket – why bother to change it over? Besides, behind the mint was a medical tang, so maybe it was just medication. Except he didn't believe in coincidences, not unless he'd written them.

He stopped, suddenly aware of a singing in his ears, feeling his heart begin to pound as if he'd run a marathon. He stared at the dampness in his palm.

"Shit."

Almost staggering to the sink he turned on the cold water, putting his hand under the tap and washing away the spray even as his vision began to dot in front of him. He swallowed, using his other hand to splash fresh water onto his face. Maybe he should call 911, tell them he was going into cardiac arrest. Leaning on the counter, his skin beginning to go numb from the cold water, he closed his eyes and tried to calm everything down.

Finally the racing heartbeat began to slow, and when he looked around he could see the loft clearly without any visual disturbance. He took a deep breath, then another. He'd tried cigarettes at Edgewick, mainly due to peer pressure, but didn't like the way they made him feel so didn't bother again. This reminded him of that time, if a thousand times worse.

Nicotine. He'd swear it was, in the mouth spray, entering his bloodstream through his skin. The pieces began to come together, and he really didn't like the picture they were making.

This brought up a whole new load of questions. Who could have switched out the mouth spray? Was it possible for someone to break into the Sheldon residence, either here in the city or out in the Hamptons, and substitute one with a lethal level of nicotine? And why that particular poison? Why not cyanide? Arsenic? Strychnine? Any of a dozen, more instant ways to kill? He couldn't help feeling that was the point, that it was nicotine for a reason.

It can't have been pleasant. Clive would have only used the medication if he'd felt the symptoms of an impending attack, and instead of relieving them they just got worse. He'd have used it again, and again, until his diaphragm stopped working and he couldn't breathe. Megan Dalwood was right – it probably did bring on the heart attack that actually killed him.

Rick stared at the spray. This was personal, he realised. Someone wanted to make Clive suffer, and the fact that it happened at the theatre was irrelevant.

Did he know? At the end, did Clive understand the method of his murder? He must have dropped the spray, hearing it roll away as he lay dying, unable to even take a breath to call 911, and that's where Martha found it, just before ... of course. The killer came back for it, in case there was anything that might tie him to the crime. There weren't likely to be fingerprints, not after being rolled around first Clive's then his own pocket, but better safe than sorry. But who knew it was there?

No. Wait. Perhaps the question had to be who knew it _wasn't _there? Somewhere it should have been?

Clive's effects were given to Grace, so who had the opportunity to realise the mouth spray wasn't amongst them? Matt? Rick shook his head. As much as he didn't like the man, he couldn't see him being that ... cruel. And that was the point. Cruelty. Suffering on purpose. Revenge.

His head snapped up and he hurried back into the living area, drying his hand on his jeans. Snatching up the manuscript, the picture his mother had shown him flashed across his mind as her words came back to him _... this was the last time Grace was ever truly happy ..._

Photos fluttered unnoticed to the floor as he flipped quickly through the pages of notes, finding exactly what he was looking for, and hoping he'd imagined. With a curse he tossed it angrily back onto the couch and ran for the door, grabbing Kate's motorbike keys from the bowl on the table as he went.


	16. Chapter 16

Rick raced through the traffic on Kate's motorbike, weaving between cars and ignoring the hooting of outraged drivers, only knowing he had to get to her as soon as he could. He'd called Ryan as he ran out of the apartment, but he had no way of knowing if a patrol car was close by, or even if anyone would believe his crazy theory. Ryan had promised, but it wasn't enough.

A rumble of thunder had greeted him as he rode out of the car park, and the first spots of rain now hit him as he hit heavy traffic. One part of his mind, the part that wasn't consumed with worry over Kate, wondered if his mother's workmen had managed to fix the leak in the acting studio roof, but the rest was concentrating on not going over on the suddenly slick road. He wasn't wearing a helmet, not knowing where Kate had put hers and with no time to search, so he really didn't want to end up a statistic, smeared across the tarmac.

Or across the side of a truck that came out of nowhere, trying to make a green that wasn't there anymore. He slammed on the brakes, feeling the bike eating up the distance between them. The tyres slid then gripped, then slid again, and his imagination supplied an all too graphic image of his body crushed and broken under the truck's wheels, too late to help Kate or anyone else. Then the laws of physics decided they'd been ignored enough and he gained traction, the bike squealing to a stop as the tail of the truck thundered by.

His heart was pounding so fast he was having difficulty discerning separate beats, but there was no time to wait for them to calm. He swallowed the lump that was unaccountably stuck in his throat and, ignoring the stares of pedestrians who'd stopped in their hurrying out of the rain to see if there was likely to be blood, he gunned the engine back to life, flicking wet hair out of his face as he took off to save Kate.

* * *

Kate had finished her tea, and wondered just how long Grace was going to keep her waiting. Perhaps she was doing it on purpose to wrongfoot someone she must still assume to be a cop, or maybe her business with the lawyer really was taking this long. She glanced at the fancy ormolu clock on the equally decorated mantelpiece, ticking away and cutting the day into manageable pieces, then her gaze drifted to the window just as a rumble of thunder rattled the cup and saucer.

She got up and walked over, looking out at the rain, and a small smile played around her lips. She wasn't usually this restless, and placed it accurately as being _not a cop anymore_. If she seriously entertained Rick's suggestion of changing direction and becoming a private detective, would she be able to stand the sitting around it would probably entail? Less paperwork, which would be good, but she was positive it would mean more surveillance in cars, eating take-outs, and that wouldn't be very healthy. _Let's see if Rick still loves me when my ass starts to spread_, she thought to herself, her reflection grinning back at her.

Starting to pace, she found herself by the small shrine of photos again, and picked up the one of Emily holding an ice cream cone and laughing as she licked the dribbles from her hand.

"My little girl," Grace Sheldon said from the doorway.

Kate didn't jump, but only because she was very good at controlling her body. "She was very pretty."

"Yes. She was." Grace closed the doors behind her and silently crossed the thick carpet, taking the photo from Kate's hand. "You know what happened to her?" she asked, running her finger down her dead daughter's image.

"I know she died in a boating accident," Kate said quietly, aware the woman still felt an intense and ancient grief.

"An accident. Yes." Grace sighed and replaced the frame amongst the others, adjusting it until it was exactly in place.

"I didn't know you worked for a living," Kate said, moving along and tapping a picture of Grace in a white lab coat, feeling the need to change the subject. "Unless this was an official visit?"

Grace half-smiled. "My father believed people should be capable of earning money for themselves. He did. He came from nothing and built a fortune, and he considered even his own daughter shouldn't rely totally on her family for her upkeep. Until she married, of course. So he put me to work in one of his new acquisitions, a perfume development company. I became very good at distilling essential oils, something of a knack that never leaves you."

Kate watched the older woman walk to one of the chairs next to the small table where the tea tray still rested, and narrowed her eyes. Something was nagging at her, something about a conversation she and Castle had had about boiling nicotine patches. "Mrs Sheldon –"

"Did you want some more tea? I can ring for Bingham."

"No. Thank you. Mrs Sheldon, I need to talk to you about your husband."

"I thought you might." Grace sat down and smoothed her navy blue dress down over her thighs. Almost in mourning but not quite. "He killed himself."

"No, Mrs Sheldon. He was poisoned. Not the same thing at all."

Grace shrugged. "Then he put himself in the way of it." A second peal of thunder rolled over the house. "I don't mind storms. I used to watch the lightning when I was a child, sitting by the window in the dark. My mother said I was inviting it in, but it made me feel alive."

"Mrs Sheldon, what do you know about the death of your husband?" Kate wasn't about to be distracted. She walked around so she was firmly in Grace's eyeline.

"Why is it important?" Grace asked in turn. "He's dead. Finding out what happened isn't going to bring him back."

"Whoever did it needs to be punished."

"Why?" Grace's cool gaze fixed the other woman. "Far better to let sleeping dogs lie."

"Did you have anything to do with the murder?"

"It was suicide," Grace said. "However it happened. He killed himself."

The words rang true, if not in the connotation Kate had anticipated. "Mrs Sheldon, what did you do?"

The doors burst open and a man almost fell into the room. "Mother, shut up!" he cried, holding his gun out in front of him.

Kate could almost feel a phantom bullet thudding into her chest, but it was only her heartbeat increasing. She started to reach for her hip, her hand only having moved a millimetre before she remembered there was no gun, that she wasn't a cop, and she was on her own.

* * *

Rick pulled the bike up behind the rental car, barely taking the time to kick the stand down and turn off the engine before dismounting and running up the steps to the front door. Ringing the bell, he began to pound on the heavy wood with a closed fist as well.

After a moment the door opened. "Yes?" It was Bingham.

Rick pushed past him. "Where's Kate Beckett?"

"Mr Castle?"

Rick pushed his wet hair out of his face, droplets of water splashing onto the black and white tiled floor. "Where is she?"

"Upstairs in the yellow drawing room. With Mrs Sheldon and Mr Matthew. But I don't think ... Mr Castle!" He stared as Rick ran to the stairs and began to take them two at a time. "I will call the police!"

"Good idea," Rick tossed over his shoulder. _Remind them_, he added silently. _Before it's too late._

* * *

"Matthew, what do you think you're doing?" Grace asked, standing slowly.

"I should ask the same of you, Mother," he said angrily, closing the door behind him. "They don't know anything, and you're ..." He gestured with his free hand.

"What are you doing with that gun?"

"Looking out for you."

"I don't need your help."

"No? Because it doesn't sound like it."

Kate took a tentative step forward but stopped as the gun lifted towards her face. "Matt Sheldon, I presume. Are you seriously planning on killing a cop?" She knew she wasn't a cop, but maybe Matt didn't, and she needed to say something – the tremble in his hand suggested he might pull the trigger accidentally.

"I ..." He bit his lip.

"Because if you are, you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life."

Grace tutted. "Matthew, put that thing down."

He glared at her and shouted, "Shut up!"

"Matt ..." Kate spoke quietly. "You haven't done anything yet. Just give me the gun and you can walk away."

"Haven't done anything?" He laughed, but the sound was choked off. "My God, I wish I hadn't done anything."

Kate's eyes narrowed, wondering if she'd lost her instincts along with her badge. "Did you kill your father?"

He stared at her. "No! Shit, no! I ..."

"Then give me the gun." Another step.

"Stand still!" He gestured sharply with the gun and Kate stopped. "Just let me think! I can't think." He ran his hand through his hair.

The sudden silence was broken by a knock at the door, _shave and a haircut_, and they all turned to stare at it, waiting for the _two bits_ that didn't come.

"Yes?" Matt called out eventually, his tone petulant.

The doors opened and a familiar face appeared.

"Rick?" Kate couldn't help herself – she glared at him, her eyes wide, her mouth tight, which he correctly interpreted as _why the hell did you knock?_ with just a hint of _are you totally insane?_.

"Matt, can I come in?" Rick asked, stepping anyway over the threshold.

Matt looked panicked, glancing at his mother, who remained aloof. Eventually he said, "Yes. Yes, I ... it means I don't have to come find you."

Rick pulled the doors to behind him, hearing the latch click. "That sounds ominous."

Matt jerked the gun. "Over there."

Nodding, Rick crossed the carpet to stand next to Kate. "Kate's wrong, though, isn't she? I don't think you killed your father." He could see her glaring at him out of the corner of his eye.

"No. No, I didn't." Matt wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Then put down the gun and we can talk."

"I ..." Matt ran his fingers through his hair again, tugging at it, but the gun didn't move.

Grace spoke, a hint of disapproval in her voice. "Richard, you're dripping rainwater on my carpet."

Rick glanced at her, his look not unsympathetic. "If Matt has his way it'll be more than rain." He could feel the weight of the gun in his pocket, but he knew if he'd stepped into that room holding it, or drew it now, Matt was just as likely to pull the trigger before he could do anything.

"Yes, well, he always was somewhat dramatic."

"Mother, I'm protecting you!" Matt insisted.

"Is that what you call trying to kill us yesterday?" Kate asked. "That's what you meant, wasn't it, what you _did_ do."

The stab hit home and Matt reddened. "I was trying to scare you off."

"From investigating your father's murder."

"Yes! And he wasn't my father."

"You know that?" Rick glanced at Grace, but her composure was complete.

"I think I've always known," Matt said bitterly. "It's why he never liked me."

"Is that why you killed him?" Kate wanted to know.

"I told you, I didn't! I'm not that –" He clamped his mouth shut on whatever he was going to say, but the damage was done.

"No. It wasn't you." Rick spoke gently. "You're not that cruel. It was your mother."

Kate stared at Rick, surprised and somehow proud that he'd worked it out too.

"And how did you come to that ridiculous conclusion?" Grace asked.

"I found the mouth spray, Grace."

The stare became a glare as Kate wondered exactly what he was talking about. But it seemed the other two weren't quite as in the dark.

"Mother ..." Matt whined.

Two spots of colour appeared high in Grace's cheeks, stark against her naturally pale complexion. "It wasn't murder. It was justice."

"Mother, shut up!" Matt implored. "I'm trying to get us out of this!"

"With a gun? You never did take time to think things out, did you?" She shook her head, a minute gesture. "That always was your problem, Matthew."

"Mine? Mine?" He gestured with the gun towards himself and Rick winced, but it was immediately aimed back at him again. "Mother, you were the one who killed your husband!" He realised what he'd said, and muttered, "Now what am I supposed to do?"

"Give Kate the gun," Rick suggested.

"I don't want to go to jail." Matt licked dry lips.

"How did _you_ know? About Emily?" Grace asked.

Rick shrugged. "The same way you did. I read it in Clive's memoires."

She gave a soft laugh that had no humour in it. "Yes. I couldn't believe he was so ... monstrously egotistical as to write the damn thing. But then he always was self-centred."

"You knew he was writing them?"

"No. I found them in his study when I was looking for something else." The laugh turned to a scoff. "I think it was going to be his last grand gesture, to be published after his death."

"Only you got there first."

"He deserved it."

Matt made a sound of desperate exasperation and Rick could see his knuckles beginning to whiten, too close to pulling the trigger. "How did you find out?" he asked, trying to buy some time, knowing the cops had to be there soon. "Did your mother show you?"

"No," Matt said, dragging his gaze from his mother. "I was clearing off his computer and found it. And I put two and two together."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"Money," Kate supplied. "He owes a lot of money. To the wrong kind of people."

"So your mother bought you off?" Rick asked.

Grace almost sighed. "After he'd done his little addition he came and found me, asked if it was true. I realised it was the only way to keep him from handing me in."

The look Matt gave his mother would have made Rick laugh in other circumstances. "Mother, I did this for you. I love you."

"No. You love what my money can do for you."

"How can you say that? After everything I've done for you?"

"Like try and kill us," Rick said, then realisation hit. "And try and get the mouth spray back, right?"

"I didn't mean to hurt her," Matt insisted. "I was looking for the spray on the stage, and she came in. I thought she'd seen me."

Rick kept his anger under control, remembering his mother's pale face as she lay in that hospital bed, the dressing in her hairline, the cast on her wrist. "Cleaning up," he muttered, putting his hands into his pockets.

"Mouth spray?" Kate couldn't stop herself any longer. "What mouth spray?"

Rick looked at Grace. "Do you mind?"

Grace shrugged elegantly. "Go ahead."

"Then let me tell you a story." He took a breath. "A _once upon a time_ ..."

"There's nothing I need to hear." Matt was holding the automatic in one hand, and any recoil would likely throw the second and third bullets high, into the wall and then the ceiling, but that first slug ...

"This is about a time when your mother was happy."

Grace gazed coolly at him. "Matthew, let him talk."

Kate raised an eyebrow at him herself, but it was more in encouragement than query, at least that's how he decided to look on it.

"Such a long time ago," he began. "When you were a little family – mother, father, son ... daughter."

Grace almost smiled. "You do understand."

"Well, it took me a little while to put the pieces together, but ... yes, I think I do." He licked his lips. "I remember Emily – I liked her."

"She liked you too. More than her brother."

"And when she died, the light went out of your world."

Grace nodded. "My little Emily. She should have had a family of her own by now, children. I could have been a great-grandmother."

"Instead of a murderer? But I'm sure you looked on it as poetic justice."

"Of course."

Rick started to pace, the gun following him, but at least Matt this time wasn't stopping him.

"A little girl, the apple of everyone's eye, sweet and kind, always happy, and enjoying life. She was even willing to look after a little boy and help him fly his kite." He smiled slightly at the memory. "Then came a day when the sun shone and her father decided to take her out on his boat."

"She didn't want to go. _You_ did," Grace said to Matt. "You always wanted to be with him, but he said no. I think you'd annoyed him that morning, probably playing too loud, and he was petty in that respect. He insisted on taking Emily instead."

"So you'd rather it had been me going overboard instead of her?" Matt asked, his eyes wide.

"It would have been easier."

Those five words and Kate could believe Grace Sheldon had plotted, with malice aforethought, to murder her husband. She didn't yet quite know the how, or the truth of the why, but Rick seemed to have a good idea.

"Easier?" Matt was shocked. "Mother, I'm your _son_!"

"And she was Emily."

Rick began to talk again. "A boat trip, only it wasn't just father and daughter, was it? Everyone thought they were alone, just having some father/daughter time, and when Emily went overboard he was there, searching for her immediately. Except they weren't alone, were they, Grace? Clive took his latest girlfriend with them."

"It was just an excuse. Taking Emily was just an excuse to get away from me, so he could ..." For once Grace couldn't finish, and the high spots of colour staining her cheeks darkened even more.

"It wasn't my mother," Rick said softly.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Kate watched as Rick spoke with quiet assertion, all her attention on the mother and son, but she couldn't help comparing Grace and Matt to Rick and Martha. No matter what their problems, and however frustrated Rick became, he loved his mother and would always be there for her, and vice versa. Kate couldn't say the same for the other two. She could never condone cheating, but if Grace had always been this cold maybe it wasn't surprising Clive played away. Except he'd been sleeping around a long time before Emily's death, so perhaps Grace was right and he'd sown the seeds of his own destruction by his very nature.

She crossed her hands behind her, flexing her fingers.

"Oh." Grace waved Rick's statement away. "Well, it had been."

Rick nodded slowly, understanding the animosity Grace had displayed towards his mother at the funeral now. "You didn't know, though, did you? All that time, all those years, you thought he'd tried to save her." He turned, began another pace across the room, this time behind Kate. If she showed any surprise at suddenly finding a .38 pushed into her hand it was only for a moment, and was gone quickly.

Grace hadn't noticed. "It was what kept me going, kept us together. Then I read his memoires." Hatred flashed in her eyes. "How could he?"

"Did you decide straight away to kill him?" Rick wanted to know.

"Yes."

"So you used your training and distilled the nicotine."

"It was easy."

"Mother ..." Matt tried once more to stop her, but it was half-hearted.

Rick ignored him. "And the mouth spray?"

"I'd read it somewhere, how nicotine is absorbed, what it does." She smiled, and it was enough to chill him. "I thought it was appropriate."

"But you knew he was dying."

"Of course. He couldn't keep something like that from me."

"Then why didn't you let nature take its course?"

"Because I wanted to kill him." She was keeping her emotions under tight control, but her fingers curled into fists. "To make him suffer like I suffered. Like Emily suffered."

"He didn't drown her."

"He might as well have. And then to lie about it for all these years. How dare he?" The last words were said on a hiss.

"And the mint?"

"Clive didn't like the taste of his medication, so he mixed it with mouthwash. It easily disguised the nicotine."

"But why not cyanide? Arsenic?"

"Too quick."

"You probably weren't going to be there when it happened."

"It was enough to know he was going to suffer when he died."

"And then you realised the mouth spray wasn't with his personal effects."

"Yes, well, that was something of a surprise. I'd arranged the funeral with what I'm sure everyone felt was indecent speed, but the mouth spray wasn't something I reckoned with. I knew where it was, of course. It had to be in that theatre. So I sent Matthew to find it for me."

Matt shuddered. "There were rats."

Rick glared at him. "You attacked my mother."

"It was an accident."

They all knew Matt was lying.

"And following us?" Kate asked. "Shooting at us?"

"I told you, I just wanted to scare you off."

Another lie, or at least not all the truth.

Grace wasn't interested in the attempted murder. "When he came back without the mouth spray, and nobody said anything, I knew they'd think it was what it appeared to be. And I'd got away with it."

"Except we kept pushing."

"Yes. They didn't tell me who was making a fuss, of course, but in all honesty I'm not surprised. You always did poke your nose into things, didn't you, Richard?"

"Occupational hazard." He looked at Matt. "So now what?"

"What?"

"We can't stay like this forever. I don't know about you, but I'm getting hungry."

Kate almost sighed, then felt the temperature in the room change, and knew something was about to happen even before the sound of a siren screamed outside, followed almost immediately by banging on the front door.

Matt stared wild-eyed, first at his mother, then at Kate, settling on Rick and deciding he was the threat, the one with all the answers, the one who was going to make the most trouble. He lifted his gun, his finger tightening without his brain getting in the way.

The sound of the gunshot was very loud, followed by a second so close on its heel it was like an echo, and a bullet embedded itself in the wall, marring the yellow silk wallpaper forever.

She'd killed to save his life before, and Dick Coonan had bled out on the precinct floor, taking his information with him. This time was different, and Matt was lying on the thick carpet and howling through the pain of a bullet in his shoulder. Kicking his pistol away into the corner of the room, Kate went down onto her knees to lean on the wound.

Grace just stood, her calm facade back in place, just watching her son writhe in front of her.

"Castle, are you okay?" Kate asked, feeling slick blood under her hands and wondering if she was ever going to get them clean.

"I'm fine. Fine." Rick dusted himself off, having felt the passage of the bullet through his hair. "I think."

"Are you bleeding?"

"No. I don't think so. Are you okay?"

"Apart from being mad as hell at you, yeah, I'm fine."

"What did I do?"

The doors opened and Megan Dalwood burst in, Ryan at her back, guns at the ready. "What the hell's going on here?" she asked, taking in the tableau.

"Ah, well, funny story ..." Rick began.

* * *

She wanted to arrest him for carrying a concealed weapon, except he pointed out he had a permit, duly signed and notarised. Megan made him wait while she checked.

Kate was talking to Ryan. "You called her?" she asked quietly as the ambulance technicians wheeled Matt out of the door. Grace was already down in one of the cars, sitting quietly, accepting the arrest as she would accept a bouquet.

"I didn't have a choice," the Irish cop explained. "If I'd told Gates she'd have called Megan's boss anyway – and I didn't think we had the time."

"No." Kate took a deep breath. "No, we didn't."

"And it is her jurisdiction."

She nodded slowly. "Thanks, Kevin."

"Hey, it's what friends are for."

"And we're even. And you know exactly what I mean."

Ryan smiled ruefully.

Megan stomped back. "Okay," she growled to Rick. "You've got a permit. I can't arrest you for that."

Rick smiled, one of his patented heart-melting grins. "Good."

It didn't work. "But give me some time and I'll think of something, and not even your friendship with the Mayor will save you." She glared at him then strode out, leaving the room feeling like someone had just walked in.

"I think I'm growing on her," Rick murmured.

"Like fungus," Kate said.

Ryan looked from one to the other, then said, "I ... uh ... have to get back to work." He backed up, turning on his heel and not quite running away.

"She's arrested Grace for murder and Matt for attempted murder. I think she should be overjoyed."

Kate wasn't about to be sidetracked. "When did you get this?" she demanded, holding the .38 out on the palm of her hand.

"Uh ... it's legal."

"That's not what I asked."

"A year ago. Give or take."

"After I got shot."

"Probably around the same time. I suppose."

"You suppose." She was almost vibrating with anger. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You weren't talking to me. Remember?"

"So you go out and buy a gun?"

"I wanted something to defend us with!" He couldn't see why she was so upset. "I keep it locked away. But that's all it's for. Protection."

"It's not a toy!"

"Did I say it was?"

"And coming in like you did ... you could have been killed!"

"I wasn't. Kate, I'm fine. So are you."

She glared at him, then with a speed that surprised him she brought up her hand and slapped him. "So help me, if I ..." She couldn't finish.

He clutched at the heat in his cheek. "Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"Putting yourself in danger." She glared at him, the fury in her eyes almost igniting the air between them, then she span on her heel and stalked out.

He stared after her for a moment before following, catching up to her at the top of the stairs. "Kate, I had to. I couldn't get hold of you, and after what I found out ... you were the one in trouble."

She didn't stop, just headed down towards the hall. "I could have handled it. I _did_ handle it."

"We've been in these situations before, Kate. Why is it different now?"

Kate turned, the height of the steps meaning she had to look up at him, but it didn't stop her poking him in the chest with a hard, straight finger. "Because I wasn't sleeping with you then!"

Annoyance boiled into anger. "Well, now you know how I feel!"

They glared at each other until Rick had had enough, and this time it was him stalking past her and crossing the black and white hall to the rain falling outside.

She sighed heavily then muttered, "What the hell do you think you're doing, Katherine Beckett?" Shaking her head she ran down the last few steps and through the doorway, feeling raindrops hitting her warm skin.

He was leaning on the rental, head down, ignoring the stares of the uniformed officers still standing around, slickers keeping them dry.

"Rick ..." She spoke quietly.

"What do you want from me, Kate?" he asked, not looking up. "I've been here for you for four years. Four years, Kate. I love you. I thought you were walking into trouble. What the hell did you think I was going to do?"

Holding the sigh inside she reached over and put her hand under his chin, lifting his head so she could look into his blue eyes. "I love you too, Rick. And what you felt, so did I. I could never forgive myself if you got hurt."

He barked a laugh. "We're a pair, aren't we?"

"That we are."

He gazed into her face for a moment longer, then pulled her into his arms, kissing her with increasing intensity, returned in full as she buried her fingers in his hair.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

"Man, that was cold," Ryan said, shuddering a little.

"Revenge is best served that way," Rick responded, tossing the remains of his whisky down his throat.

"Yeah, but that's absolute zero. Killing a man who's already dying ..."

"And she wasn't even going to watch," Esposito added.

"She said it didn't matter," Kate explained. "She knew he was going to die, in a pretty terrible fashion, and it was enough to know she caused it."

"It's still cold."

They were sitting in Rick's usual booth in the Old Haunt, doing what cops had always done and talking over the just finished case. Rick signalled Brian for another round of drinks. "Ah, but that's a woman scorn'd, my friend. Just remember that with Jenny."

Ryan looked panicked for a moment, then relaxed. "I'm never going to put her in that position."

"You say that now ..."

"Don't worry, Kevin," Kate assured him. "It won't happen to you." She looked at Esposito. "I'd be more worried about Lanie."

"Nah," Esposito said cockily. "Not going to happen."

"I'm sure that's what every man thinks, right before the knife slides in," Rick said, flicking an eyebrow.

Now it was Esposito's turn to look faintly worried.

Brian put the tray of drinks on the table, then leaned down. "Lady over there paid for these," he said quietly. "Said she'd like to speak to you." He looked pointedly at Kate.

Everyone turned.

"Oh," Rick breathed.

Captain Victoria Gates was standing by the bar, her arms crossed.

"_She_ paid?" Ryan whispered, trying to make himself as insignificant as possible.

"I told her not to," Brian said, equally _soto voce_, "but she insisted."

Kate stood up. "Better go, then."

Rick went to get to his feet to join her, but Brian put out his hand. "Not you. She was very clear on that."

"It's okay, Castle," Kate said. "I can take my medicine. But if I get arrested I'd take it as a kindness if you'd come and bail me out."

"You can count on that." He watched her walk to the bar, for once not captivated by her backside in the tight jeans, but far more worried about what could happen.

Gates took Kate further away so they couldn't be overheard, and after a minute Rick turned to Ryan.

"Do you know anything about this?"

The Irish cop shook his head. "Not a word. You?" he asked his partner.

Esposito shrugged. "Over and above the internal investigation into our behaviour is over and I'm off suspension, no."

Ryan stared at him. "And you didn't tell me? Us?"

Rick was equally annoyed. "What about Kate?"

"I don't know. Wasn't told. Besides, she resigned." He glanced around. "Scuttlebutt is that someone high up ... _really_ high up ... told the powers that be to be lenient."

"Who?"

"No idea."

Rick wondered if it was him, Deep Throat or whatever his name was, the one who'd made a deal with the bad guys to keep Kate safe. Except that didn't fit – surely he'd want her off the force, make her less of a threat. Or maybe it did – if she was a cop she'd have other things to think about, with little time to give to investigating her mother's murder. He sighed. Shakespeare had it right – that way madness lay.

"She's coming back," Ryan whispered.

Kate slid back into her seat, her face unreadable.

"So?" Rick prompted. "What did she want?"

For what seemed like an eternity she didn't answer, taking a moment to pick up her drink and sip it.

Curiosity turned to concern, and concern to out and out worry. "Kate? What is it?"

Kate exhaled heavily, then looked up into his face. "She didn't take my resignation."

"What?"

"She didn't accept it. She left me on suspension. That's all."

"Then you're still a cop?" Rick asked, breathless.

"If I want."

"Do you?" Rick glanced at Ryan and Esposito, but they were both staring as well. "Kate? Do you?"

* * *

Kate looked up at the old building and sighed.

"What's up?" Rick asked.

"Thinking."

"What about?"

"Life. How quickly things change. Even when we don't want them to."

"I hope you weren't including us in that statement."

She glanced at him. "It took us four years, Rick. I don't think 'quickly' is the word I'd use."

"Maybe not." He smiled. "But are you sure about this?"

"It's what I am. If nothing else, the last few days has shown me that."

"So you really don't fancy being a PI?"

"Maybe later. When I've been passed over for promotion a few times. In about fifteen years."

"Caskett Investigations."

"Caskett. Why Caskett?"

"Castle ... Beckett." He mimed joining the two names together.

"Why does your name have to come first?"

"Because otherwise it would be Beckle."

"Good point. And no."

"No?"

"I don't think so." She allowed the corner of her mouth to lift.

"Do you think we'll still be together?"

She gazed at him, then the lip tilt became an enigmatic smile, and she turned on her high heel to walk into the station.


End file.
